i^ygm 


IT\\NA*1I,  TO  LAST   ME  ALL  THESE   MONTHS   AKD 


I 


HANNAH 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 


"JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN,"  "A  BRAVE  LADY,"  "THE 
OGILVIES,"  *'  OLIVE,"  "  AGATHA'S  HUSBAND,"  &c. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS. 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 

1877. 


f  ft- 


'SHE   STOPPED,  LEANED  HER  ELBOW  ON  THE  TA.BLE,  AND  HER  HEAD 
CrON    llEU   HAND." 


HANNAH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"A  STEANGE,  sad  kind  of  letter,"  said  Miss  Thelluson  to 
herself,  as  she  refolded  and  replaced  it  in  its  envelope. 
She  had  a  habit  of  always  putting  things  back  into  their 
right  places.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  answer  it  at  once. 
And  yet — " 

She  stopped;  leaned  her  elbow  on  the  table,  her  head 
upon  her  hand,  and  pressed  down  her  eyelids.  They  were 
wet  eyelids — though  she  was  not  exactly  weeping — and 
tired  eyes;  for  it  was  late  at  night,  and  she  had  had  a 
hard  day's  work,  of  teaching  first,  and  private  study,  in 
order  to  teach,  afterward;  since,  not  being  a  brilliantly 
clever  woman,  it  cost  her  some  pains  to  keep  up  to  the  level 
of  accomplishments  required  of  a  first-class  governess  in  a 
"  high"  family. 

"High"  though  it  was,  an  earl's,  indeed  —  and  though 
the  little  Ladies  Mary,  Georgina,  and  Blanche,  now  safely 
asleep  in  their  beds,  were  good,  pleasant  children,  and  very 
fond  of  their  governess — still,  as  she  sat  in  that  homely 
furnished,  dimly-lighted  sitting-room,  Hannah  Thelluson 
looked  a  lonely  kind  of  woman — not  one  of  those  likely 
to  make  many  friends,  or  keep  up  a  large  correspondence. 
This  letter,  which  seemed  to  affect  her  a  good  deal,  was 
the  only  one  which  she  had  received  for  days  past,  and  the 
servants  had  forgotten  to  bring  it  up  until  they  brought 
her  supper.     It  did  not  matter,  being  only  for  the  govern- 

A2 


10^  c  ;  /  HANXAH. 

ess.  Miss  Thelluson  was  scarcely  sorry.  It  was  best  read 
when  she  was  alone.  For  it  was  from  her  brother-in-law, 
the  husband  of  her  lately  dead  sister. 

"Poor  Rosa!"  she  sighed,  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  big, 
upright,  rather  peculiar  handwriting  which  she  had  scarce- 
ly seen  since  the  time  when  she  used  to  bring  in  Rosa's 
daily  love-letters — "  and  poor  Mr.  Rivers  too !" 

She  had  never  learned  to  call  him  any  thing  but  Mr. 
Rivers ;  for  the  marriage,  which  had  all  come  about  when 
Rosa  was  on  a  visit,  had  been  a  sudden,  frantic  love-match 
between  a  rich  young  man  and  a  lovely  penniless  girl; 
and  during  their  brief,  bright  year  of  wedded  happiness 
the  elder  sister  had  seen  almost  nothing  of  them  beyond 
a  formal  three-days'  visit.  But  even  that  had  been  enough 
to  make  Hannah  not  regret  that  her  duties  had  stood  in  the 
way  of  her  pleasures,  and  caused  her  to  feel  by  instinct  that 
a  grave  governess-sister  was  not  likely  to  advance  young 
Mrs.  Rivers's  dignity  in  the  eyes  of  Lady  Rivers  and  the  peo- 
ple at  the  Moat  House,  who  had  looked  very  coldly  on  the 
marriage.  And  when  fate  suddenly  broke  the  tie,  leaving 
Mr.  Rivers  a  sorrowing  widower,  with  a  little  month-old 
daughter  instead  of  the  longed-for  son  and  heir,  Hannah 
bitterly  felt  that  whosover  might  grieve  after  poor  Rosa, 
it  would  not  be  her  husband's  family. 

They  merely  communicated  to  her  the  fact  of  the  death, 
which,  like  the  birth,  had  taken  place  abroad ;  and  except  a 
brief  answer  from  the  grandmother  to  a  letter  she  wrote,  in- 
quiring after  the  baby,  she  had  heard  no  more.  She  could 
not  leave  her  duties ;  she  had  to  sit  still  and  suffer — silently, 
as  working-women  must,  and  patiently,  as  women  learn  to 
suffer  who  have  been,  to  use  that  most  pathetic  of  phrases, 
"  acquainted  with  grief."  She  had  put  forward  no  claim 
either  for  sympathy  or  consideration  to  her  brother-in-law 
or  his  relatives,  and  believed  that  henceforth  the  slight  in- 
tercourse she  ever  had  with  them  was  probably  ended. 
Therefore  she  was  a  good  deal  surprised  to  receive  this  let- 
ter, which  entreated  of  her  the  very  last  thing  she  would 
have  expected — that  she  would  assume  a  sister's  place  to- 


HANNAH.  11 

ward  Mr.  Rivers,  and  come  and  take  charge  of  his  house- 
hold, and  especially  of  her  little  motherless  niece. 

"  How  strange  !"  she  kept  thinking.  "  How  can  he 
want  me  when  he  has  sisters  of  his  own  ?"  But  then  she 
remembered  that  the  Misses  Rivers  were  young  and  lively 
women,  very  much  out  in  society,  and  probably  not  in- 
clined to  burden  themselves  with  the  care  of  a  widower's 
dreary  house  and  a  widower's  forlorn  infant,  even  for  the 
sake  of  their  own  flesh-and-blood  brother.  So  he  came  for 
help  to  his  wife's  sister — who,  though  almost  a  stranger  to 
himself,  could  not  but  feel,  he  said,  the  strong  tie  of  blood 
w^hich  bound  her  to  his  child.  He  pleaded,  for  his  child's 
sake,  that  she  would  come. 

Hannah  could  not  help  feeling  pleased  and  touched.  It 
was  a  sort  of  compliment  which,  coming  to  her,  a  lonely 
woman,  and  from  a  person  of  whom  she  knew  so  little, 
was  rather  pleasant  than  not.  She  tried  to  recall  all  she 
had  ever  noticed  of  her  brother-in-law — not  very  much, 
except  that,  though  he  was  young,  handsome,  and  rather 
excitable,  there  seemed  a  simplicity  and  affectionateness 
about  him  which  she  had  rather  liked.  Still,  in  their  slight 
intercourse,  the  only  thing  the  sister  had  ever  cared  to  find 
out  was  that  he  loved  Rosa  and  Rosa  loved  him.  Satis- 
fied of  these  two  facts,  she  had  left  the  young  people  to 
their  happiness,  and  gone  back  to  her  own  quiet  life,  which 
would  have  been  a  dreary  life,  had  she  herself  been  a  less 
self-dependent  and  unexacting  woman. 

And  now  the  happiness  which  she  might  have  envied, 
had  she  seen  more  of  it,  was  over  and  done.  Bright,  beau- 
tiful Rosa  had  lain  six  months  in  her  grave  ;  and  here  was 
Rosa's  husband  asking  the  solitary  sister  to  fulfill  toward 
him  and  his  child  all  the  duties  of  a  near  and  dear  relative. 
For  he  addressed  her  as  "  my  dear  sister ;"  and  in  his  let- 
ter, which  was  impulsive,  fragmentary,  and  evidently  in 
earnest,  he  seemed  to  fling  himself  upon  her  pity  and  help, 
as  if  he  had  no  one  else  to  appeal  to. 

"  I  have  been  reading  over  again  the  letters  you  used 
to  send  weekly  to  my  poor  Rosa,"  he  Avrote.     "  It  is  these 


1 2  HANNAH. 

which  have  induced  me  to  make  this  request ;  for  they 
convince  me  that  you  must  be  a  good  woman — a  woman 
fitted  to  give  help  and  consolation  to  such  a  forlorn  crea- 
ture as  I  am.  How  forlorn,  you  little  know !  A  man  who 
has  had  a  wife  and  lost  her  is  the  wretchedest  creature  on 
earth — infinitely  more  wretched  than  those  who  have  nev- 
er known  that  blessing.  Every  day,  every  hour,  I  miss  my 
darling.  Continually  I  hear,  in  a  sort  of  ghostly  way,  her 
step  about  the  house,  her  voice  outside  in  the  garden ;  till 
sometimes,  in  the  excessive  loneliness,  I  am  actually  fright- 
ened— not  of  her,  but  of  myself — lest  I  should  be  going 
mad.  Men  do  go  mad  w^ith  grief  sometimes,  especially 
husbands  who  have  lost  their  wives.  I  have  read  several 
such  cases  in  the  newspapers  lately :  my  eye  seems  to  light 
upon  them,  and  my  mind  to  retain  them,  with  a  horrible 
pertinacity.  But  why  trouble  you  with  these  personali- 
ties?    No  more." 

And  \hen  he  began  to  describe  his  baby  ;  saying  sho 
was  a  deav  little  thing,  but  that  he  did  not  understand  her. 
She  seemed  to  be  always  crying,  and  nobody  could  man- 
age her,  thoagh  he  saw  a  different  woman  almost  every 
time  he  came  into  the  nursery. 

When  she  first  read  this  passage  Hannah  had  started 
up,  her  always  pale  face  hot  and  warm.  The  weak  point 
in  her  nature — rather  a  pathetic  w^eakness  in  one  whom 
some  people  called,  and  she  herself  firmly  believed  to  be, 
a  born  old  maid — was  her  love  of  children.  Her  heart  had 
yearned  oftentimes  over  Rosa's  motherless  babe,  but  she 
felt  that  she  could  not  interfere  with  the  grandmother  and 
father.  Now  the  picture  of  it — transferred  from  nurse  to 
nurse,  neglected  or  ignored — smote  her  with  a  sort  of  self- 
reproach,  as  if  her  pride  or  her  shyness,  or  both,  had  led 
her  weakly  to  desert  her  own  flesh  and  blood — her  sister's 
child. 

"I  ought  to  have  gone  and  seen  it  —  seen  w^hat  they 
were  doing  with  it.  I  have  as  much  right  to  it  as  any  one 
of  them  all.    Poor  little  baby !    Rosa's  very  own  baby !" 

The  tears,  which  came  so  rarely  and  painfully  to  her 


HANNAH.  13 

eyes,  came  now;  and  they  did  her  good.  It  seemed  to 
open  and  warm  her  heart  even  to  think  of  that  little  baby. 

Gradually  her  thoughts  took  shape  and  purpose.  Though 
she  seldom  meditated  much  upon  herself,  still  Miss  Thellu- 
son  had  not  lived  thirty  years  in  this  troublesome  world 
without  knowing  her  own  character  pretty  well.  She  was 
quite  aware  of  one  great  want  in  her  nature — the  need  to 
be  a  mother  to  somebody  or  something.  It  came  out  even 
toward  the  large  white  cat  that  lived  in  the  school-room, 
and  loved  the  governess  better  than  any  creature  in  the 
house.  It  had  helped  her  to  manage  many  a  difficult  pupil, 
and  stood  her  in  good  stead  with  her  little  Ladies  Dacre, 
who,  before  she  came,  had  been  rather  disagreeable  and 
unmanageable  children.  Now  they  were  very  good,  and 
loved  her  with  all  their  aristocratic  little  hearts — as  warm 
as  other  hearts,  though  perhaps  more  suppressed.  She 
loved  them  also ;  but  it  was  rather  a  sad  kind  of  affection, 
as  she  knew  it  could  be  only  temporary.  They  would  drift 
away  from  her,  and  marry  earls  and  dukes ;  and  she  would 
be  no  more  to  them  than  "  our  old  governess."  It  was 
nearly  the  same  with  other  little  folks  of  her  own  rank — 
the  children  of  her  friends  or  school-fellows — who  gener- 
ally called  her  Aunt  Hannah,  and  were  very  fond  of  her 
while  she  was  with  them ;  but,  of  course,  soon  forgot  her 
when  she  was  away.  All  natural — quite  natural ;  yet  it 
sometimes  seemed  rather  sad. 

Now  here  was  a  child  to  whom  she  had  an  actual  right 
of  blood.  Whether  or  not  the  Rivers  family  had  liked 
Rosa,  or  herself,  they  could  not  abolish  the  fact  that  she 
was  the  child's  aunt ;  and,  if  the  father  desired  it,  its  nat- 
ural guardian.  The  first  impulse  of  strangeness  and 
shrinking  passed  away,  and  as  she  read  over  again  Mr. 
Rivers's  letter,  and  began  clearly  to  comprehend  what  he 
wished,  there  grew  up  a  longing  indescribable  after  that 
duty  w^hich  was  set  before  her  in  such  a  sudden  and  un- 
expected way;  yet  which,  the  more  she  thought  about  it, 
seemed  the  more  distinct  and  plain. 

She  dried  her  eyes,  and,  late  as  it  was,  prepared  to  an- 


14  HANNAH. 

swer  the  letter,  knowing  she  would  not  have  leisure  to  do 
it  next  morning  before  post-time.  Besides,  she  wished  to 
"sleep  upon  it,"  as  people  say;  and  then  read  it  over 
again  in  the  calm  light  of  day :  Hannah  Thelluson  being 
one  of  those  people  who  dislike  doing  things  in  a  hurry, 
but  who,  having  once  put  their  hands  to  the  plow,  never 
Jook  back. 

She  was  fully  aware  that  if  she  acceded  to  her  brother- 
in-law's  request  she  must  not  look  back ;  however  difficult 
the  position  might  be,  it  would  be  still  more  difficult  to 
quit  it  and  return  to  her  old  calling  as  a  governess.  And 
that  provision  for  her  old  age,  which  she  was  year  by  year 
slowly  accumulating — with  the  pathetic  prudence  of  a 
woman  who  knows  well  that  only  her  own  labor  stands 
between  her  and  the  work-house — that  too  must  be  given 
up.  For  Mr.  Rivers  would,  of  course,  offer  her  no  salary ; 
and,  if  he  did,  how  could  she  possibly  accept  it  ?  Was 
she  not  coming  to  his  house  as  a  sister,  with  all  the  honors 
and  some  few  of  the  bondages  of  that  relationship  ?  Her 
common-sense  told  her  that,  pleasant  as  in  some  measure 
her  duties  might  be,  they  entailed  considerable  sacrifices 
as  well.  But  women  like  her,  though  they  dislike  taking 
a  leap  in  the  dark,  will  often  take  a  most  difficult  and  dan- 
gerous one  with  their  eyes  open,  fully  counting  the  cost. 

"Yes,  I  will  venture  it,"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause  of 
thought.  "  The  risk  can  not  be  much,  and  it  is  only  my 
own,  after  all." 

So  she  sat  down  to  write  her  letter. 

While  she  does  so,  let  us  look  at  her,  the  solitary  gov- 
erness whom  few  ever  looked  at  now. 

Miss  Thelluson  could  not  have  been  handsome,  even  in 
her  first  youth,  which  was  past  now.  Her  face  was  long 
and  thin ;  her  eyes  deep-set,  though  they  were  sweet  eyes 
in  themselves,  grave  and  tender,  and  of  a  soft  gray.  Her 
hair  was  of  no  particular  color — in  fact,  she  had  no  special 
attraction  of  any  kind,  except  a  well-proportioned  figure, 
which  in  motion  had  a  willowy  grace,  that  some  tall  wom- 
en— not  all — possess.     And  her  smile  was  very  winning. 


HANNAH.  15 

though  slightly  sad,  as  if  fate  had  meant  her  to  be  a 
bright-natured  woman,  but  had  changed  its  mind,  and  left 
her  so  long  without  happiness  that  she  had  at  last  learned 
to  do  without  it.  In  this,  as  in  most  other  things — ex- 
ternal as  well  as  internal — she  was  utterly  unlike  her  sister 
Rosa.  A  certain  family  tone  in  their  voices  was  the  only 
resemblance  that  was  likely  in  any  way  to  give  the  wid- 
ower pain. 

It  was  strange  to  write  to  him — "My  dear  brother,"  she 
who  never  had  a  brother — but  she  thought  she  ought  to 
do  it,  and  so  she  did  it ;  trying  hard  to  feel  as  an  affec- 
tionate sister  should  toward  a  sorely-afflicted  brother,  unto 
whom  she  was  bound  to  show  every  possible  tenderness. 
Yet  it  was  difficult,  for  she  was  a  reserved  woman,  who 
took  a  long  time  to  know  any  body. 

"  And  I  really  know  almost  nothing  of  him,"  she  thought. 
"  No  blood  relationship — no  tie  of  old  association ;  and  yet 
one  is  expected  to  treat  a  strange  man  as  one's  brother, 
just  because  one's  sister  has  gone  through  the  marriage 
ceremony  with  him.  If  I  had  seen  more  of  Mr.  Rivers — 
if  I  had  lived  actually  in  the  house  wuth  him —  But,  no ; 
that  would  not  have  done  it;  nothing  would  have  pro- 
duced what  did  not  really  exist,  I  can  only  hope  the 
right  sisterly  feeling  will  come  in  time,  and  I  must  get  on 
as  well  as  I  can  till  it  does  come." 

So  she  pondered,  and  wrote  a  letter ;  short,  indeed,  but 
as  affectionate  as  she  could  conscientiously  make  it ;  sug- 
gesting plainly  that  one  of  his  own  sisters  would  be  a 
much  better  housekeeper  for  him  than  herself;  but  that, 
if  he  really  wished  for  her,  she  would  come.  And  she 
signed  herself,  after  a  considerable  struggle — for  the  word, 
which  she  had  thought  she  should  never  say  or  write 
more,  cost  her  a  gush  of  tears,  "  Your  faithful  sister,  Han- 
nah Thelluson." 

It  was  fully  one  in  the  morning  before  the  letter  was 
done,  and  she  had  to  be  up  at  six,  as  usual.  But  she  slept 
between  whiles  soundly,  not  perplexing  herself  about  the 
future.     Hers  was  an  essentially  peaceful  nature;  when 


16  HANNAH. 

she  had  done  a  thmg,  and  done  it  for  the  best,  she  usually 
let  it  alone,  and  did  not  "  worry  "  about  it  any  more.  That 
weak,  restless  disposition,  which,  the  moment  a  thing  is 
done,  begins  to  wish  it  undone,  was  happily  not  hers.  It 
had  been  Rosa's,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  bright,  pleasant, 
loved,  and  loving  life ;  which,  perhaps,  accounted  for  the 
elder  sister's  habits  being  markedly  the  contrary. 

Yet,  when  her  mind  was  made  up,  and  she  put  her  let- 
ter into  the  post-bag,  it  was  not  without  a  certain  doubt, 
almost  a  fear,  whether  she  had  done  rightly — no,  rightly 
she  had  little  doubt  of— but  wisely,  as  regarded  herself. 
Then  came  her  usual  consolatory  thought — "  It  can  only 
harm  myself"  Still  she  felt  it  w^as  a  serious  change,  and 
many  times  during  the  day  her  thoughts  wandered  pain- 
fully from  her  duties  in  the  school-room  to  her  brother-in- 
law  and  his  child. 

Nobody  noticed  her  preoccupation,  for  it  was  one  of  the 
essential  and  familiar  facts  of  the  governess's  life  that  she 
might  be  sick  or  sorry,  troubled  or  glad,  without  any 
body's  observing  it.  Not  that  she  ever  met  with  the  least 
unkindness,  indeed  her  position  in  this  family  was  a  very 
happy  one  ;  she  had  every  thing  her  own  way,  and  was 
treated  by  the  countess  with  that  stately  consideration 
w^hich  so  perfectly  well-bred  a  woman  could  not  fail  to 
show  to  the  meanest  member  of  her  household.  But,  nec- 
essarily, Miss  Thelluson's  life  was  one  of  complete  isola- 
tion ;  so  that  but  for  her  pupils,  their  naughtinesses  and 
goodnesses,  she  would  have  ceased  to  recognize  herself 
as  one  of  the  great  human  brotherhood,  and  felt  like  a  soli- 
tary nomad,  of  no  use  and  no  pleasure  to  any  body.  A 
sensation  which,  morbid  and  foolish  as  it  may  be,  is  not 
rare  to  women  who  are  neither  old  nor  young — who,  on 
the  verge  of  middle  age,  find  themselves  without  kith  or 
kin,  husband  or  child,  and  are  forced  continually  to  re- 
member that  the  kindest  of  friends  love  them  only  with  a 
tender  benevolence,  as  adjuncts,  but  not  essentials,  of  hap- 
piness. They  are  useful  to  many — necessary  to  none ;  and 
the  sooner  they  recognize  this,  the  better. 


HANNAH.  1 7 

As  Miss  Thelluson  kissed  the  little  Ladies  Dacre  in  their 
beds — where,  somewhat  in  defiance  of  the  grand  nurse,  she 
insisted  upon  going  to  them  every  night — the  thought  of 
that  helpless  baby,  her  own  baby — for  was  not  Rosa's  child 
her  very  flesh  and  blood  ? — came  across  her  in  a  flash  of  sun- 
shiny delight,  that  warmed  her  heart  through  and  through. 
She  began  to  plan  and  to  dream,  until  at  the  end  of  that 
solitary  evening  walk  through  the  park,  which  she  seldom 
missed — it  was  sad  and  soothing  after  the  cares  of  the  day 
— she  began  to  fancy  she  had  not  half  appreciated  Mr.  Riv- 
ers's  proposal,  or  responded  to  it  half  warmly  enough ;  and 
•to  fear,  with  an  almost  ridiculous  apprehension,  that  he 
might  change  his  mind,  or  that  something  might  happen 
to  prevent  the  scheme  from  being  carried  out.  And  she 
waited  with  a  nervous  anxiety,  for  which  she  laughed  at 
herself,  the  return  post  by  which  she  had  requested  him 
to  Avrite  his  final  decision. 

It  came  in  six  lines : 

"I  shall  expect  you  as  soon  as  you  can  make  it  practi- 
cable. You  will  be  like  her  lost  mother  to  my  poor  little 
girl ;  and,  as  for  me,  my  wife's  sister  shall  be  to  me  exactly 
as  my  own." 

Hannah  wondered  a  little  how  much  his  own  sisters  were 
to  him  ;  whether  it  was  the  close  afiectionate  bond — so 
free  yet  so  strong — which  had  always  been  her  unknown 
ideal  of  fraternal  love,  or  the  careless  tie,  less  of  sympathy 
than  of  habit  and  familiarity,  such  as  she  often  saw  it  in  the 
w^orld — for  she  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world,  more  or 
less,  since  she  had  been  a  governess.  Also,  just  a  little,  she 
wondered  whether,  with  the  best  intentions,  it  was  possible 
to  create  an  artificial  bond  where  the  real  one  did  not  ex- 
ist, and  how  soon  she  should  learn  to  feel  at  ease  with  Mr. 
Rivers,  as  much  as  if  he  had  been  her  born  brother. 

But  these  speculations  were  idle ;  time  would  decide  all 
things.  Her  only  present  thought  need  be  that  the  die 
was  cast ;  there  was  no  drawing  back  now.  She  had,  as 
speedily  as  possible,  to  arrange  her  own  afiairs,  and  first 
to  give"  warning" — as  servants  say — to  Lady  Dunsmore. 


1 8  HANNAH. 

This  was  not  exactly  a  pleasant  task,  for  the  countess 
and  her  governess  had  always  got  on  together  remarkably 
well ;  the  one  lady  recognizing  calmly,  and  without  either 
false  pride  or  false  shame,  that  though  a  lady,  she  was  also 
a  governess — a  paid  servant,  discharging  her  duties  like  the 
rest ;  the  other  lady  receiving  and  appreciating  those  serv- 
ices as  a  lady  should.  Therefore  nothing  was  lost,  and 
much  gained  on  both  sides.  Miss  Thelluson  had  been  two 
years  in  the  family,  and  it  seemed  tacitly  understood  that 
she  was  to  remain  until  the  young  ladies'  education  was 
finished.  Thus  suddenly  to  desert  her  post  looked  almost 
like  ingratitude — a  vice  abhorrent  in  all  shapes  to  Hannah- 
Thelluson. 

It  was  with  a  hesitating  step,  and  a  heart  beating  much 
faster  than  its  wont — this  poor  heart,  strangely  stilled 
down  now  from  its  youthful  impulsiveness — that  she 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  morning-room  where  her  pu- 
pils' mother,  young  and  beautiful,  happy  and  beloved, 
spent  the  forenoon  in  the  elegant  employments  that  she 
called  duties,  and  which  befitted  her  lot  in  life — a  lot  as 
different  from  that  of  her  governess  as  it  is  possible  to 
conceive.  The  two  women  were  wide  apart  as  the  poles 
— in  character,  circumstances,  destiny :  yet,  both  being 
good  women,  they  had  a  respect,  and  even  liking,  for  one 
another.  Hannah  admired  the  countess  excessively,  and 
Lady  Dunsmore  always  had  for  her  governess  a  smile  as 
pleasant  as  that  she  bestowed  on  the  best  "  society." 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Thelluson !  Pray  sit  down.  I 
hope  nothing  is  amiss  in  the  school-room  ?  Mary  seems 
working  more  diligently  of  late.  Georgy  and  Blanche  are 
not  more  troublesome  to  you  than  usual  ?" 

"  Indeed,  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  either  Lady  Blanche 
or  Lady  Georgina,  and  Lady  Mary  is  as  good  a  girl  as  she 
can  be,"  returned  Hannah,  warmly,  half  amused  at  herself 
for  noticing  what  a  week  ago  she  would  have  accepted  as 
too  natural  a  fact  to  be  observed  at  all — that  it  never  oc- 
curred to  her  pupils'  mamma  to  suppose  she  could  have 
any  other  interest  beyond  Lady  Mary,  Lady  Georgina, 


"Nane  ever  feared  that  the  truth  should  be  heard, 
But  those  whom  the  truth  wad  indite." 

Burns. 


^•3S914 


HANNAH.  1 9 

and  Lady  Blanche.  That  then'  governess  should  have  a 
separate  existence  of  her  own,  or  any  personal  affairs  to 
communicate,  seemed  quite  impossible.  "  Have  you  ten 
minutes  to  throw  away,  Lady  Dunsmore  ?"  continued  she. 
"  May  I  have  a  word  with  you  about  myself  and  my  own 
concerns  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  nothing  could  give  me  greater  pleasure ;" 
and  then  with  that  sweet,  courteous  grace  she  had — it 
might  be  only  outside  good-breeding,  and  yet,  as  it  never 
failed  her,  and  all  outside  things  do  fail  sometimes,  I  think 
it  must  rather  have  been  from  her  kindly  heart — the  count- 
ess settled  herself  to  listen.  But  first  she  cast  a  slight  side- 
long glance  of  observation  and  mquiry.  Was  it  possible 
that  Miss  Thelluson  was  going  to  be  married  ? 

But  no  love-story  was  indicated  by  the  grave,  quiet, 
dignified  manner  of  the  governess. 

"  You  are  aware,  I  think,"  she  said,  "  that  my  only  sis- 
ter died  six  months  ago." 

"Ah,  I  was  so  sorry  to  hear  it !     Was  she  married  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Of  course  !  I  remember  now.  She  died  at  her  confine- 
ment, and  the  dear  little  baby  also  ?" 

"  N"o,"  returned  Hannah,  shortly,  and  then  was  vexed  at 
herself  for  being  so  foolishly  sensitive.  What  possible 
impression  could  Rosa's  sad  story  have  made,  beyond  the 
passing  moment,  on  this  beautiful  and  brilliant  woman, 
whose  interests  were  so  wide,  who  had  such  myriads  of 
acquaintances  and  friends  ?  To  expect  from  her  more  than 
mere  kindliness,  the  polite  kindliness  which  her  manner 
showed,  as,  evidently  annoyed  at  her  own  mistake,  she 
cudgeled  her  memory  to  recall  the  circumstances,  was  ex- 
acting from  Lady  Dunsmore  too  much,  more  than  human 
nature  was  capable  of.  Hannah  recognized  this,  and  saved 
lierself  and  the  countess  by  plunging  at  once  i7i  medias  res. 
"  No  ;  the  baby  happily  did  not  die.  It  is  alive  still,  and 
my  brother-in-law  wishes  me  to  come  and  take  charge  of 
it,  and  of  his  household." 

"  Permanently  ?"  . 


20  HANNAH. 

"  I  hope  so." 

"Then  you  come  to  tell  me  that  you  wish  to  relinquish 
your  position  here.  Oh,  Miss  Thelluson,  I  am  so  sorrj  I 
At  the  commencement  of  the  season,  too.  How  shall  I 
ever  find  time  to  get  a  new  governess  ?" 

The  countess's  regret  was  unmistakable,  though  it  took 
the  personal  tone  which  perhaps  was  not  unnatural  in  one 
for  whom  the  wheels  of  life  had  always  turned  so  smooth- 
ly, that  when  there  was  the  least  jar  she  looked  quite  sur- 
prised. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  too,  on  many  accounts,"  said  Miss 
Thelluson.  "I  love  my  pupils  dearly.  I  should  like  to 
have  remained  until  they  grew  up,  to  have  dressed  Lady 
Mary  for  her  first  drawing-room,  as  she  always  said  I  must, 
and  watched  how  people  admired  Lady  Blanche's  beauty 
and  Lady  Georgina's  magnificent  voice.  They  are  three 
dear  little  girls,"  continued  the  governess,  not  unmoved, 
for  she  loved  and  was  proud  of  her  pupils.  "  My  heart  is 
sore  to  leave -them.  But  this  baby,  my  poor  little  niece,  is 
my  own  flesh  and  blood." 

"  Of  course  !  Pray  do  not  imagine  I  blame  you,  or  think 
you  have  used  me  ill,"  said  the  countess,  gently.  "  You 
are  only  doing  what  is  natural  under  the  circumstances, 
and  I  shall  easily  replace  you — I  mean  I  shall  easily  find 
another  governess ;  it  will  be  more  difiicult  to  get  a  sec- 
ond Miss  Thelluson." 

Miss  Thelluson  acknowledged,  but  did  not  attempt  to 
deny,  the  delicate  compliment.  She  knew  she  had  done 
her  duty,  and  that  under  many  difiiculties — far  more  than 
the  countess  suspected.  For  hapless  countesses,  who  are 
the  centre  of  brilliant  societies,  have  only  too  few  hours 
to  spend  in  their  nurseries  and  sch9ol-rooms ;  and  these 
three  little  ladies  owed  much,  more  than  their  mother 
guessed,  to  their  governess.  It  had  sometimes  been  a 
comfort  to  Miss  Thelluson  in  her  dull  life  to  hope  that  the 
seed  she  sowed  might  spring  up  again  years  hence  in  the 
hearts  of  these  young  aristocrats,  who  would  have  so  much 
in  their  power  for  good  or  for  evil.    She  had  tried  her  best 


HANNAH.  21 

CO  make  them  really  "  noble  "  women,  and  it  was  pleasant 
to  have  her  labor  appreciated. 

"And  how  soon  do  you  wish  to  go  ?"  asked  Lady  Duns- 
more,  rather  lugubriously,  for  she  had  had  endless  changes 
of  governesses  before  Miss  Thelluson's  time,  and  she  fore* 
saw  the  same  thing  over  again — or  worse. 

"  Do  not  say  I '  wish '  to  go.  But  my  brother-in-law 
requires  me  much,  he  says,  and  would  like  to  have  me  as 
soon  as  you  could  spare  me.  Not  a  day  sooner,  though, 
than  you  find  convenient.  I  could  not  bear  that.  You 
have  been  so  kind ;  I  have  been  so  happy  here." 

"As  I  trust  you  will  be  everywhere,"  replied  Lady 
Dunsmore,  cordially.  "  Your  brother's  home  —  I  forget 
exactly  where  it  is." 

"  Easterham.  He  is  the  Reverend  Bernard  Rivers,  the 
vicar  there." 

"  Son  to  Sir  Austin  Rivers,  of  Easterham  Moat  House, 
who  married  one  of  the  Protheroes  ?" 

"I  really  don't  know  Lady  Rivers's  antecedents  —  I 
never  can  remember  pedigrees,"  replied  Hannah,  smiling. 
"  But  his  father  is  certainly  Sir  Austin,  and  they  live  at 
the  Moat  House." 

"  Then  I  know  all  about  them.  Why  did  you  not  tell 
me  before  ?  I  must  have  met  your  brother-in-law.  He  is 
the  eldest — no,  I  am  forgetting  again — the  second  son,  but 
takes  the  place  of  the  eldest,  who  is  of  weak  intellect,  is  he 
not  ?" 

"  I  believe  so,  unfortunately.     He  has  epileptic  fits." 

"And  is  not  likely  to  marry.  All  the  better  for  the 
clergyman.  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  him — a  tall,  bearded, 
handsome  young  man." 

"  Rosa  used  to  think  him  handsome.  As  to  his  youth, 
I  fancy  he  was  about  five  years  her  senior.  That  would 
make  him  just  my  age ;  but  men  are  quite  young  still  at 
thirty." 

"  Women,  too,  I  hope,"  said  the  countess,  smiling  with 
a  pleasant  consciousness  that  if  Debrett  had  not  betrayed 
it,  no  one  would  ever  have  imagined  that  she  was  herself 


22  HANNAH. 

fully  that  age.  Tlien,  as  if  struck  with  a  sudden  thought, 
she  eyed  Miss  Thelluson  keenly — one  of  those  acute,  pene- 
trating looks  of  hers,  a  mixture  of  the  shrewd  woman  of 
the  world  with  the  single-minded,  warm-hearted  woman 
that  she  undoubtedly  w^as,  also. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  a  great  liberty  with  you,  Miss 
Thelluson,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause ;  "  but  I  am  a  can- 
did person — may  I  say  a  few  candid  words  ?" 

"  Certainly.     And  I  should  thank  you  for  saying  them." 

"  Well,  then,  you  are  still  a  young  woman." 

"  Oh  no  ;  not  young." 

The  countess  put  out  her  pretty  hand  with  imperative 
gesture,  and  repeated — 

"  Yes ;  a  young  unmarried  woman,  and  I  am  a  matron 
and  a  mother.  May  I  ask,  have  you  w^ell  considered  in 
every  point  of  view  the  step  you  are  about  to  take  ?" 

"  I  think  I  have.  That  there  are  many  difficulties,  I 
know  ;  and  I  am  prepared  for  them." 

"  What  sort  of  difficulties  ?" 

Hannah  hesitated ;  but  the  frank,  kind  eyes  seemed  to 
compel  an  answer.  She  was  so  unused  to  sympathy  that 
when  it  did  come  she  could  not  resist  it — 

"  First — I  know  I  may  speak  confidentially,  Lady  Duns- 
more — first,  there  is  the  Moat  House.  The  Rivers  family 
did  not  quite  like  my  poor  Rosa ;  at  least,  they  wished  their 
son  to  have  married  higher.  They  may  not  like  me  either, 
and  they  may  naturally  feel  offended  at  his  choosing  his 
w^ife's  sister  to  live  with  him,  instead  of  one  of  his  own." 

"  He  had  better  have  chosen  one  of  his  own." 

"  I  think  so  too,  and  I  told  him  this ;  but  he  makes  no 
answer,  and  therefore  I  conclude  he  has  good  reasons  for 
not  w^ishing  it,  and  for  wishing  me  instead.  Then  I  shall 
hold  a  most  responsible  position  in  his  household,  have 
much  parish  work  to  do,  as  much  as  if  I  Avere  the  clergy- 
man's wife." 

"  He  should  take  a  wife  as  soon  as  he  can." 

Hannah  winced  a  moment.  "  It  is  only  six  months 
since  her  death ;  and  yet — and  yet —     Yes  !     I  feel,  with 


HANNAH.  23 

you,  that  the  sooner  he  takes  a  wife  the  better ;  his  need 
of  help,  he  tells  me,  is  very  great ;  but  in  the  mean  time  I 
must  help  him  all  I  can." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will ;  you  are  made  to  help  people,"  said 
the  countess,  cordially.  "  But  none  of  these  are  the  diffi- 
culties I  was  foreseeing." 

"  About  my  poor  little  niece,  perhaps  ?  You  think  an 
old  maid  can  not  bring  up  a  baby,  or  manage  a  house, 
with  a  man  at  the  head  of  it — men  being  so  peculiar  ?  But 
Rosa  always  said  her  husband  was  the  sweetest  temper  in 
the  world." 

"He  looked  so.  Not  gifted  with  overmuch  strength, 
either  mentally  or  bodily ;  but  of  a  wonderfully  amiable 
and  affectionate  nature.  At  least,  so  he  struck  me  in  the 
few  times  I  saw  him.  I  only  wish  I  had  seen  more  of  him, 
that  I  now  might  judge  better." 

"  On  my  account  ?"  said  Hannah,  half  amused,  half 
pleased  at  the  unexpected  kindliness. 

The  countess  took  her  hand.  "  Will  you  forgive  me  ? 
Will  you  believe  that  I  speak  purely  out  of  my  interest  in 
you,  and  my  conviction  that,  though  you  may  be  a  much 
better  woman  than  T,  I  am  a  wiser  woman  than  you — at 
least,  in  worldly  wisdom.  Are  you  aware,  my  dear  Miss 
Thelluson,  that  this  is  the  only  country  in  the  world  in 
which  a  lady  of  your  age  and  position  could  take  the  step 
you  are  contemplating  ?" 

"  Why  not  ? — what  possible  reason — " 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  put  the  idea  into  your  head,  since  it 
evidently  has  never  come  there.  No  !  I  am  not  sorry. 
Whatever  you  do  ought  to  be  done  with  your  eyes  open. 
Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  your  brother-in-law  is 
really  no  brother,  no  blood  relation  at  all  to  you ;  and  that 
in  every  country,  except  England,  a  man  may  marry  his 
wife's  sister  ?" 

Hannah  drew  back;  a  faint  color  rose  in  her  cheek:  but 
it  soon  died  out.  The  idea  of  her  marrying  any  body 
seemed  so  supremely,  ridiculously  impossible — of  her  mar- 
rying Rosa's  husband  painfully  so. 


24  HANNAH. 

"  It  certainly  did  not  occur  to  me,"  she  answered,  gently, 
"  and  if  it  had,  it  would  have  made  no  difference  in  my  de- 
cision. Such  marriages  being  unlawful  here,  of  course  he 
is  simply  my  brother,  and  nothing  more." 

"He  is  not  your  brother,"  persisted  Lady  Dunsmore. 
"  No  force  of  law  can  make  him  so,  or  make  you  feel  as  if 
he  were.  And  I  assure  you,  I  who  have  gone  about  the 
world  much  more  than  you  have,  that  I  have  seen  many 
sad  instances  in  which — " 

But  the  expression  of  distress,  and  even  repulsion,  on 
the  governess's  face  made  the  other  lady  pause. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  said ;  "  you  must  have  thought  the  mat- 
ter well  over,  and  it  is,  after  all,  purely  your  own  affair." 

"  It  is  my  own  affair,"  replied  Hannah,  still  gently,  but 
in  a  w^ay  that  would  have  closed  the  subject,  had  not  the 
countess,  wdth  her  infinite  tact  and  good-breeding,  dis- 
missed it  at  once  herself,  and  begun  consulting  with  Miss 
Thelluson  on  the  best  way  of  replacing  her,  and  the  quick- 
est, that  she  might  the  sooner  be  free  "  to  go  to  that  poor 
little  baby." 

"  And  remember,"  she  added,  "  that  on  this  point  you 
need  have  no  qualms.  My  old  nurse  used  to  say  that  any 
sensible  woman,  with  a  heart  in  her  bosom,  could  manage 
a  baby." 

Hannah  smiled,  and  her  happy  feeling  returned,  so  that 
she  was  able  to  listen  with  interest,  and  even  amusement, 
to  a  vivid  description  which  the  clever  countess  gave  of 
baby's  grandmother  and  aunts,  whom  she  had  met  in  Lon- 
don that  season. 

"  All  Easterham  is  terra  incognita  to  me.  Lady  Duns- 
more  ;  but  I  shall  try  not  to  be  afraid  of  any  thing  or  any 
body,  and  to  do  my  best,  whatever  happens — a  very  com- 
monplace sentiment ;  but,  you  see,  I  was  always  a  com- 
monplace person,"  added  Hannah,  smiling. 

"  In  which  case  you  would  never  have  found  it  out,"  re- 
plied the  countess,  who  had  hitherto  had  few  opportunities 
of  any  long  talk  with  her  governess  on  other  topics  than 
the  children.     Now,  having  both  an  aptitude  and  a  love 


HANNAH.  25 

for  the  study  of  character,  she  found  herself  interested  un- 
awares in  that  grave,  still,  refined-looking  woman,  who, 
though  perhaps,  as  she  said,  a  little  commonplace  when  in 
repose,  was,  when  she  talked,  capable  of  so  much  and  such 
varied  expression,  both  of  feature  and  gesture — for  there 
is  a  language  of  motion  quite  as  plain  as  the  language  of 
form,  and  of  the  two  perhaps  it  is  the  most  attractive. 

She  said  to  herself,  this  brilliant  little  lady,  who  had  seen 
so  much  of  life — of  aristocratic  life  especially,  and  of  the  ter- 
rible human  passions  that  seethe  and  boil  under  the  smooth 
surface  of  elegant  idleness — she  said  to  herself,  "  That  face 
has  a  story  in  it." 

Yes,  Miss  Thelluson  had  had  her  story,  early  told  and 
quickly  ended ;  but  it  had  Colored  her  whole  life,  for  all 
that. 

She  had  no  brothers ;  but  she  had  an  orphan  cousin,  of 
whom  she  was  very  fond.  As  childish  playfellows,  the  two 
always  said  they  would  marry  one  another,  which  every 
body  laughed  at  as  an  excellent  joke,  until  it  grew  into 
earnest.  Then  Hannah's  father,  an  eminent  physician,  in- 
terfered. There  was  consumption  in  the  family,  and  the 
young  man  had  already  shown  ominous  symptoms  of  it. 
His  marrying  any  body  was  unwise;  his  marrying  a  first 
cousin  absolute  insanity.  Dr.  Thelluson,  much  as  he  blamed 
himself  for  allowing  the  young  people  every  chance  of  fall- 
ing in  love,  when  it  was  most  imprudent  for  them  to  marry, 
was  yet  too  good  a  man  frantically  to  shut  the  stable  door 
after  the  steed  was  stolen,  and  to  overstrain  parental  au- 
thority to  cruelty.  He  did  not  forbid  the  marriage,  but 
he  remonstrated  against  it,  both  as  a  father  and  a  physi- 
cian, in  the  strongest  manner,  and  worked  so  much  upon 
Hannah's  feelings,  that  she  consented  to  be  separated  en- 
tirely from  her  cousin  for  three  years,  until  she  came  of  age. 
Her  reason  told  her  that  was  no  unfair  test  of  so  youthful 
an  attachment.  Her  father's  secret  hope  was  that  the  test 
might  fail,  the  affection  wear  away,  and  the  union,  which, 
though  sanctioned  by  law  and  custom,  he  believed  nature, 
totally  disapproved  of,  might  never  come  about. 

B 


26  HAliNAH. 

It  never  did.  Long  before  the  three  years  were  ended, 
young  Thelluson  died  at  Madeira  of  the  family  disease. 
Hannah  restored  her  betrothal-ring  to  her  finger,  saying 
calmly,  "  I  am  married  now,"  and  seemed  to  bear  her  sor- 
row quietly  enough  at  first.  But  the  quietness  grew  into 
a  stupor  of  despair,  ending  in  that  state  of  mind  almost  akin 
to  madness,  in  which  one  dwells  hopelessly  and  agonizingly 
upon  what  might  have  been ;  for  some  people  were  cruel 
enough  to  hint  that  a  wife's  care  might  have  lengthened 
her  lover's  life,  and  that  his  grief  for  Hannah's  loss  accel- 
erated his  fatal  disease.  Many  a  time  when  her  father 
looked  at  her  he  almost  wished  he  had  let  the  hapless 
cousingf)  marry — running  all  risks  for  themselves  or  their 
possibJiG  children.  But  all  his  life  the  physician  had  held 
the  doctrine  that  hereditary  taint,  physical  or  moral,  con- 
stitutes a  stronger  hindrance  to  marriage  than  any  social 
bar.  He  had  acted  according  to  his  faith,  and  he  was  not 
shaken  from  it  because  he  had  so  keenly  suffered  for  it. 

After  a  time  Hannah's  sorrow  wore  itself  out,  or  was 
blotted  out  by  others  following — her  father's  death,  and 
the  dispersion  of  the  family.  There  was  no  mother  liv- 
ing ;  but  there  were  three  sisters  at  first,  then  two,  then 
only  one — her  quiet,  solitary  self.  For  her  great  grief  had 
left  upon  her  an  ineffaceable  impression — not  exactly  of 
melancholy,  but  of  exceeding  quietness  and  settled  loneli- 
ness of  heart.  She  said  to  herself,  "  I  never  can  suffer  more 
than  I  have  suffered ;"  and  thenceforward  all  vicissitudes 
of  fate  became  level  to  her — at  least  she  thought  so  then. 

Such  was  her  story.  It  had  never  been  very  public,  and 
nobody  ever  talked  of  it  or  knew  it  now.  Lady  Dunsmore 
had  not  the  least  idea  of  it,  or  she  would  not  have  ended 
their  conversation  as  she  did. 

"  Good-by  now,  and  remember  you  have  my  best  wishes 
— ay,  even  if  you  marry  your  brother-in-law.  It  is  not 
nearly  so  bad  as  marrying  your  cousin.  But  I  beg  your 
pardon ;  my  tongue  runs  away  with  me.  All  I  mean  to 
say,  seriously,  is  that,  my  husband  being  one  of  those  who 
uphold  the  bill  for  legalizing  such  marriages,  I  am  well  up 


HANNAH.  27 

on  the  subject,  and  we  both  earnestly  hope  they  will  be  le- 
galized in  time." 

"  Whether  or  not,  it  can  not  concern  me,"  said  Miss 
Thelluson,  gently. 

"  The  remedying  of  a  wrong  concerns  every  body  a  little 
— at  least  I  think  so.  How  society  can  forbid  a  man's  marry- 
ing his  wife's  sister,  who  is  no  blood-relation  at  all,  and  yet 
allow  him  to  marry  his  cousin — a  proceeding  generally  un- 
wise, and  sometimes  absolutely  wicked — I  can  not  imagine. 
But  forgive  me  again;  I  speak  earnestly,  for  I  feel  earnestly." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Miss  Thelluson. 

She  w^as  a  little  paler  than  usual ;  but  that  was  all ;  and 
when  she  had  parted,  quite  affectionately,  from  her  pupils' 
mother,  she  went  and  sat  in  her  own  little  room  as  quiet 
as  ever,  except  that  she  once  or  twice  turned  round  on  her 
third  finger  its  familiar  ring,  the  great  red  carbuncle,  like 
a  drop  of  blood,  which  had  belonged  to  her  cousin  Arthur. 

"  What  a  fancy  of  the  countess's  to  call  me  '  young,'  and 
suggest  my  marrying  !"  thought  she,  with  a  faint  sad  smile. 
"  No,  I  shall  never  marry  any  body ;  and  therefore  it  is 
kind  of  Heaven  thus  to  make  a  home  for  me,  and  above 
all,  to  send  me  a  child.  A  child  of  my  very  own  almost ; 
for  she  will  never  remember  any  mother  but  me.  How  I 
wish  she  might  call  me  mother  !  However,  that  would  not 
do,  perhaps.  I  must  be  content  v>^ith  *  auntie.'  But  I  shall 
have  her  all  to  myself,  nevertheless,  and  perhaps  Mr.  Rivera 
may  marry  again,  and  then  I  would  ask  him  to  give  her  up 
wholly  to  me.  Only  to  think,  me  with  a  child  ! — a  little 
thing  trotting  after  me  and  laughing  in  my  face — a  big 
girl  growing  up  beside  me,  a  grown-u]3  daughter  to  com- 
fort my  old  age — oh,  what  a  happy  woman  I  should  be  !" 

So  pondered  she  —  this  lonely  governess,  this  "old 
maid,"  whose  love-dreams  were  long  ago  vanished;  and 
began  unawares  to  let  the  fact  slip  behind  her  and  look 
forward  to  the  future;  to  build  and  freight  with  new 
hopes  that  tiny  ship — she  that  had  never  thought  to  put 
to  sea  again ;  to  set  her  empty  heart,  with  all  its  capacity 
of  loving,  upon  what  ?    A  baby  six  month*?  old ! 


28  HANNAH, 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  HOUSE  on  a  hill.  It  has  its  advantages,  and  its  dis- 
advantages. It  is  hard  to  climb  to,  and  harder  to  descend 
from.  Everywhere  round  about  you  may  see  from  it; 
but  then  every  body  round  about  can  see  you.  It  is  like 
the  city  set  on  a  hill,  it  can  not  be  hid.  Its  light  shines 
far;  but  then  the  blacker  is  its  darkness.  However,  one 
need  not  carry  out  the  metaphor,  Avhich  speaks  for  it- 
self. 

Hannah  Thelluson's  ideal  of  a  house  had  always  been  a 
house  on  a  hill.  She  had  a  curious  dislike  to  living,  either 
physically  or  morally,  upon  low  ground.  She  wanted 
plenty  of  breathing -room:  space  around  her  and  over 
her:  freedom  to  look  abroad  on  the  earth  and  up  to  the 
sky.  And,  though  her  nature  was  neither  ambitious  nor 
overbearing,  she  experienced  even  yet  a  childish  delight 
in  getting  to  the  top  of  things,  in  surmounting  and  looking 
down  upon  difficulties,  and  in  feeling  that  there  was  noth- 
ing beyond  her — nothing  unconquered  between  herself  and 
the  sky.  At  least,  that  is  the  nearest  description  of  a  sen- 
timent that  was  quite  indescribable,  and  yet  as  real  as  in- 
tangible fancies  often  are. 

Therefore  it  had  given  her  a  certain  sensation  of  pleasure 
to  hear  that  Mr.  Rivers  had  removed  from  his  house  in  the 
village,  the  associations  of  which  he  found  it  impossible  to 
bear,  to  another,  on  the  top  of  Eastcrham  Hill,  or  Down, 
as  it  was  generally  called,  being  a  high  open  space,  breezy,^ 
and  bright.  On  it  he  was  building  a  few  cottages — a  cot- 
tage convalescent  hospital  he  meant  it  to  be — in  memory 
of  his  late  wife. 

"  I  had  planned  a  marble  monument,"  he  wrote  to  Han- 
nah, "  a  recumbent  figure  of  herself,  life-size,  with  two  an- 
gels Avatching  at  head  and  foot.     But  I  found  this  would 


HANNAH.  29 

cost  nearly  as  much  as  the  cottage,  and  it  struck  me  that 
Rosa  would  have  liked  something  that  was  not  only  a  me- 
morial of  the  dead,  but  a  blessing  to  the  living." 

Hannah  agreed  with  him,  and  that  little  circumstance 
gave  her  a  favorable  impression  of  her  brother-in-law.  She 
was  also  touched  by  the  minute  arrangements  he  made  for 
her  journey,  a  rather  long  one,  and  her  reception  at  its  end. 
Some  of  his  plans  failed — he  was  not  able  to  meet  her  him- 
self, being  sent  for  suddenly  to  the  Moat  House — but  the 
thoughtful  kindness  remained,  and  Miss  Thelluson  w^as 
grateful. 

She  wound  slowly  up  the  hill  in  her  brother-in-law's  com- 
fortable carriage,  and  descended  at  his  door,  the  door  of  a 
much  grander  house  than  she  expected — till  she  remem- 
bered that  since  Rosa's  death  Mr.  Rivers's  income  had  been 
doubled  by  succeeding  to  the  fortune  of  a  maternal  uncle. 
With  him  wealth  accumulated  upon  wealth,  as  it  seems  to 
do  with  some  people ;  perhaps,  alas !  as  a  balance-weight 
against  happiness. 

Miss  Thelluson  asked  herself  this  question,  in  a  sad  kind 
of  way,  when  she  entered  the  handsome  modern  house — 
very  modern  it  seemed  to  her,  who  had  been  living  in  old 
castles  these  three  years,  and  very  luxurious  too.  She  won- 
dered much  whether  she  should  feel  at  home  here ;  able  to 
be  happy  herself,  or  make  the  widower  happy — the  forlorn 
man,  who  had  every  blessing  in  life  except  the  crowning  one 
of  all,  a  good  wife:  the  "gift  that  cometh  from  the  Lord." 
Was  this  worse  or  better  for  him  ?  He  had  had  it,  and  it 
had  been  taken  away.  Hannah  thought,  with  a  compas- 
sion for  the  living  that  almost  lessened  her  grief  for  the 
dead,  how  desolate  he  must  often  feel,  sitting  down  to  his 
solitary  meals,  wandering  through  his  empty  garden — Rosa 
had  so  loved  a  garden — and  back  again  to  his  silent  room. 
How  he  must  miss  his  wife  at  every  step,  in  every  thing 
about  him.  A  loss  sharper  even  than  that  one — the  sharp- 
ness of  which  she  knew  so  well.  But  then,  she  and  Arthur 
had  never  been  married. 

"I  must  try  and  help  him  as  much  as  I  can — my  poor 


80  HANNAH. 

brother-in-law  !"  thought  she  to  herself  as  she  came  into  the 
dreary  house ;  all  the  more  dreary  because  it  was  such  a 
handsome  house ;  and  then  she  thought  no  more  either  of 
it  or  its  master.  For  did  it  not  contain  what  was  infinite- 
ly more  interesting  to  her — the  baby  ? 

Some  people  will  smile  at  what  I  am  going  to  say ;  and 
yet  it  is  truth — a  truth  always  solemn,  sometimes  rather 
sad  likewise.  There  are  women  in  whom  mother-love  is 
less  an  instinct  or  an  affection  than  an  actual  passion — as 
strong  as,  sometimes  even  stronger  than,  the  passion  of  love 
itself;  to  whom  the  mere  thought  of  little  hands  and  little 
feet  —  especially  "  my  little  hands,  my  little  feet,"  in  that 
fond  appropriation  with  which  one  poet-mother  puts  it — 
gives  a  thrill  of  ecstasy  as  keen  as  any  love-dreams.  This, 
whether  or  not  they  have  children  of  their  own;  often,  poor 
women !  when  they  are  lonely  old  maids.  And  such  a  one 
was  Hannah  Thelluson. 

As  she  entered  the  house  (I  feel  the  confession  is  more 
pathetic  than  ridiculous)  she  actually  trembled  with  the 
delight  of  thinking  that  in  a  minute  more  she  would  have 
her  little  niece  in  her  arms ;  and  her  first  question  was, 
"  Where  is  the  baby  ?" 

Apparently  a  question  quite  unexpected  from  any  visitor 
in  this  house;  for  the  footman,  much  surprised,  passed  it  to 
the  butler,  and  the  butler  circulated  it  somewhere  in  the 
inferior  regions ;  whence  presently  there  appeared  a  slat- 
ternly female  servant. 

"  I  am  Miss  Thelluson,  baby's  aunt.  I  want  to  see  my 
little  niece." 

Upon  this  the  slatternly  girl  led  the  way  up  a  steep 
stair  to  the  nursery.  It  was  a  long,  low,  gloomy  room, 
which  struck  chilly  on  entering,  even  in  full  summer,  for 
its  only  window  looked  northeast,  and  was  shaded  by  an 
overhanging  tree.  It  had  in  perfection  the  close  nursery 
atmosphere  of  the  old  school,  whose  chiefest  horror  seemed 
to  be  fresh  air.  Sunless,  smothery,  dull,  and  cold,  it  was 
the  last  place  in  the  world  for  any  young  life  to  grow  up 
in.    It  cast  a  weight  even  upon  the  grown  woman^  who 


HANNAH.  31 

loved  light  and  air,  and  would  never,  either  physically  or 
mentally,  willingly  walk  in  gloom. 

Miss  Thelluson  contemplated  sadly  that  small  pale  ef- 
figy of  a  child,  which  lay  in  the  little  crib,  with  the  last 
evening  light  slanting  across  it  through  a  carelessly-drawn 
curtain.  It  lay,  not  in  the  lovely  attitudes  that  sleeping 
children  often  assume,  but  flat  upon  its  back,  its  arms 
stretched  out  cruciform,  and  its  tiny  feet  extended  straight 
out,  almost  like  a  dead  child.  There  w^as  neither  round- 
ness nor  coloring  in  the  face,  and  very  little  beauty.  Only 
a  certain  pathetic  peace,  not  unlike  the  peace  of  death. 

"  Don't  touch  her,"  whispered  Miss  Thelluson,  as  the 
nurse  was  proceeding  roughly  to  take  up  her  charge. 
"  Never  disturb  a  sleeping  child.  I  will  wait  till  to-mor- 
row." 

And  she  stood  and  looked  at  it — this  sole  relic  of  poor 
Rosa ;  this  tiny  creature,  which  was  all  that  was  left  of  the 
Thelluson  race,  notable  and  honorable  in  its  day,  though 
long  dw'indled  down  into  poverty  and  obscurity. 

As  she  looked  there  came  into  Hannah's  heart  that  some- 
thing—  mothers  say  they  feel  it  at  the  instant  when  God 
makes  them  living  mothers  of  a  living  babe  ;  and  perhaps 
He  puts  it  into  the  hearts  of  other  women,  not  mothers  at 
all,  in  solemn,  exceptional  cases,  and  for  holy  ends — that 
passionate  instinct  of  protection,  tenderness,  patience,  self- 
denial — of  giving  every  thing  and  expecting  nothing  back, 
which  constitutes  the  true  ideal  of  maternity.  She  did  not 
lift  the  child ;  she  would  not  allow  herself  even  to  kiss  its 
little  curled-up  fingers,  for  fear  of  waking  it ;  but  she  con- 
secrated herself  to  it  from  that  moment — as  only  women 
and  mothers  can,  and  do. 

ISTurse,  who  disliked  her  authority  being  set  aside,  ap- 
proached again.  "  [N'ever  mind  touching  it,  miss;  we 
often  do.     It  only  cries  a  bit,  and  goes  off  to  sleep  again." 

But  Hannah  held  her  arm.  "No,  no  !"  she  said,  rather 
sharply ;  "  I  will  not  have  the  child  disturbed.  I  can  wait. 
It  is  my  child." 

And  she  sat  down  on  the  rocking-chair  by  the  crib  side 


32  HANNAH. 

with  the  air  of  one  who  knew  her  own  rights,  and  was  de- 
termined to  have  them.  All  her  nervous  doubt  of  herself, 
her  hesitation  and  timidity,  vanished  together ;  the  sight 
before  her  seemed  to  make  her  strong — strong  as  the  weak- 
est creatures  are  when  the  maternal  instinct  comes  into 
them.  At  the  moment,  and  forever  henceforth,  Hannah 
felt  that  she  could  have  fought  like  any  wild  beast  for  the 
sake  of  that  little  helpless  babe. 

She  sat  a  long  while  beside  it ;  long  enough  to  take  in 
pretty  clearly  the  aspect  of  things  around  her.  Though 
she  was  an  old  maid,  or  considered  herself  so,  she  had  had 
a  good  deal  of  experience  of  family  life  in  the  various  nurs- 
eries of  friends  and  employers ;  upon  which  her  strong  com- 
mon-sense and  quick  observation  had  made  many  internal 
comments.  She  detected  at  once  here  that  mournful  lack 
of  the  mother's  eye  and  hand ;  the  mother's  care  and  de- 
light in  making  all  things  orderly  and  beautiful  for  the 
opening  intelligence  of  her  darling.  It  was  quite  enough 
to  look  around  the  room  to  feel  sure  that  the  little  sleeper 
before  her  was  nobody's  darling.  Cared  for,  of  course,  up 
to  a  certain  extent,  in  a  stupid,  mechanical  way ;  but  there 
was  nobody  to  take  up,  with  full  heart,  the  burden  of 
motherhood,  and  do  the  utmost  for  the  little  human  being 
who,  physiologists  say,  bears,  in  body  and  soul,  the  impress 
of  its  first  two  years  of  life  with  it  to  the  grave. 

"And  this  duty  falls  to  me ;  God  has  given  it  to  me," 
said  Hannah  Thelluson  to  herself  And  without  a  mo- 
ment's questioning,  or  considering  how  far  the  labor  might 
outweigh  the  reward,  or  indeed  whether  the  reward  would 
ever  come  at  all,  she  added  solemnly,  "Thank  God !" 

"  I  shall  be  here  again  before  bedtime,"  said  she  aloud 
to  the  nurse  as  she  rose. 

"You  can't,  miss,"  returned  the  woman,  evidently  bent 
on  resistance  ;  "  I  always  goes  to  bed  early,  and  I  locks  my 
nursery  door  after  I've  gone  to  bed." 

"  That  will  not  do,"  said  Miss  Thelluson.  "  I  am  baby's 
aunt,  as  you  know,  and  her  father  has  given  her  into  my 
charge.     The  nursery  must  never  be  locked  against  me, 


HANNAH.  33 

clay  or  night.  Where  is  the  key  ?"  She  took  it  out  of  the 
door  and  put  it  into  her  pocket,  the  nurse  looking  too  ut- 
terly astonished  to  say  a  word.  "  I  shall  be  back  here 
again  punctually  at  half-past  nine." 

"  My  first  battle !"  she  thought,  sighing,  as  she  went 
away  to  her  own  room.  She  was  not  fond  of  battles ;  still, 
she  could  fight  —  when  there  was  something  worth  fight- 
ing for ;  and  even  her  first  half  hour  in  the  widower's  house- 
hold was  sufiicient  to  show  her  that  the  mistress  of  it  would 
require  to  have  eyes  like  Argus,  and  a  heart  as  firm  as  a 
rock.  This  was  natural ;  like  every  thing  else,  quite  nat- 
ural :  but  it  was  not  the  less  hard,  and  it  did  not  make  her 
home-coming  to  the  house  on  the  hill  more  cheerful. 

It  was  a  new  house  comparatively,  and  every  thing 
about  it  was  new.  I^othing  could  be  more  different  from 
the  old-fashioned  stateliness  in  which  she  had  lived  at  Lord 
Dunsmore's.  But  then  there  she  was  a  stranger ;  this  was 
home.  She  glanced  through  the  house  in  passing,  and  tried 
to  admire  it,  for  it  was  her  brother-in-law's  own  property, 
only  lately  bought.  Not  that  he  liked  it — he  had  told  her 
mournfully  that  he  neither  liked  nor  disliked  any  thing 
much  now — but  it  was  the  most  suitable  house  he  could 
find. 

She  went  out  into  the  garden,  and  wept  out  a  heartful 
of  tears  in  the  last  gleam  of  the  twilight,  then  she  came 
back  and  dressed  for  the  seven  o'clock  dinner,  for  which 
the  maid,  who  appeared  at  the  door,  saying  she  had  been 
specially  ordered  to  attend  on  Miss  Thelluson,  told  her 
Mr.  Rivers  was  sure  to  return. 

"The  first  time  master  ever  has  returned,  miss,  to  a 
regular  late  dinner,  since  the  poor  mistress  died." 

This,  too,  was  a  trial.  As  Hannah  descended,  attired 
with  her  usual  neatness,  but  in  the  thorough  middle-aged 
costume  that  she  had  already  assumed,  there  flashed  across 
her  a  vision  of  poor  Rosa,  the  last  time,  though  they  little 
knew  it  was  the  last,  that  she  ran  into  her  sister's  room 
just  before  dinner;  all  in  white,  her  round  rosy  arms  and 
neck  gleaming  under  the  thin  muslin,  so  happy  herself, 

B2 


84  HANNAH. 

and  brightening  all  around  her  with  her  loving,  lovesome 
ways.  And  now,  a  mile  distant,  Rosa  slept  under  the  dai- 
sies.    How  did  her  husband  endure  the  thought  ? 

With  one  great  sob  Hannah  smothered  down  these  re- 
membrances. They  would  make  the  approaching  meet- 
ing more  than  painful — intolerable.  She  felt  as  if  the 
first  minute  she  looked  into  her  brother-in-law's  face  and 
grasped  his  hand,  both  would  assuredlly  break  down,  al- 
though  over  both  had  grown  the  outside  composure  of  a 
six-months-old  sorrow. 

He  himself  seemed  in  dread  of  a  "  scene,"  and  watchful 
to  avoid  it,  for  instead  of  meeting  her  in  the  drawing- 
room,  she  found  him  waiting  for  her  at  the  stair-foot,  under 
the  safe  shelter  of  all  the  servants'  eyes. 

"  I  am  late,"  he  said.     "  I  must  apologize." 

Then  they  shook  hands.  Mr.  Rivers's  hand  was  trem- 
bling, and  very  cold,  but  that  was  all.  He  said  nothing 
more,  and  led  her  at  once  into  the  dining-room. 

In  such  circumstances  how  dreadful  sometimes  are  little 
things — the  little  things  that  unconsciously  crop  up,  sting- 
ing like  poisoned  arrows.  There  was  one — Hannah  re- 
called it  long  afterward,  and  so  did  others — dwelling  ma- 
lignly upon  the  innocent,  publicly  uttered,  kindly  words. 

The  table  had  been  laid  for  two  persons,  master  and 
mistress,  and  the  butler  held  for  Miss  Thelluson  the  mis- 
tress's chair.  Struck  with  a  sudden  pang,  she  hesitated — 
glanced  toward  Mr.  Rivers. 

"  Take  it,"  he  said,  in  a  smothered  kind  of  voice ;  "  it  is 
your  place  now.     I  hope  you  will  keep  it  always." 

So  she  sat  down  in  Rosa's  seat ;  with  Rosa's  husband 
opposite.  How  terrible  for  him  to  see  another  face  in  the 
room  of  that  dear,  lovely  one,  over  which  the  coffin-lid  had 
closed !  It  was  her  duty,  and  she  went  through  it ;  but 
she  felt  all  dinner-time  as  if  sitting  upon  thorns. 

During  the  safe  formalities  of  the  meal  she  had  leisure 
to  take  some  observation  of  her  brother-in-law.  He  was 
greatly  altered.  There  had  passed  over  him  that  great 
blow — the  first  grief  of  a  lifetime ;  and  it  had  struck  him 


HANNAH.  35 

down  as  a  man  of  naturally  buoyant  temperament  usually 
is  struck  by  any  severe  shock — sinking  under  it  utterly. 
Even  as  sometimes  those  whom  in  full  health  disease  has 
smitten  die  quicker  than  those  who  have  been  long  inured 
to  sickness  and  suffering. 

His  sister-in-law  observed  him  compassionately  but 
sharply;  more  sharply  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 
The  marriage  having  been  all  settled  without  her,  she  had 
not  to  criticise  but  to  accept  him  as  Rosa's  choice,  and  had 
actually  only  seen  him  twice — on  the  wedding-day,  and 
the  one  brief  visit  afterward.  She  had  noticed  him  little, 
until  now.  But  now,  when  they  were  to  live  together  as 
brother  and  sister ;  when  he  expected  her  to  be  his  friend 
and  companion,  daily  and  hourly ;  to  soothe  him  and  sym- 
pathize with  him,  put  up  with  all  his  moods  and  humors, 
consult  him  on  all  domestic  matters,  and,  in  short,  stand 
to  him  in  the  closest  relation  that  any  woman  can  stand 
to  any  man,  unless  she  is  his  mother  or  his  wife,  the  case 
was  altered.  It  behooved  her  to  find  out,  as  speedily  as 
possible,  what  sort  of  man  Mr.  Rivers  was. 

He  had  a  handsome  face,  and  yet — this  "  yet"  is  not  so 
unfair  as  it  seems — it  was  likewise  a  good  face ;  full  of 
feeling  and  expression.  A  little  feminine,  perhaps — he 
was  like  his  mother,  the  first  Lady  Rivers,  who  had  been 
a  very  beautiful  woman ;  and  once  Hannah  had  thought 
it  boyishly  bright — too  bright  to  interest  her  much,  but  it 
was  not  so  now.  The  sunshine  had  all  gone  out  of  it,  yet 
it  had  not  attained  the  composed  dignity  of  grief.  Irri- 
table, restless,  gloomy,  morbid,  he  seemed  in  that  condi- 
tion into  which  a  naturally  good-tempered  man  is  prone 
to  fall  when  some  great  shock  has  overset  his  balance, 
and  made  him  the  exact  opposite  of  what  he  once  was — 
hating  every  thing  and  every  body  about  him,  and  him- 
self most  of  all. 

Hannah  sighed  as  she  listened,  though  trying  not  to 
listen,  to  his  fault-finding  with  the  servants,  sometimes 
sotto  voce,  sometimes  barely  restrained  by  his  lingering 
sense  of  right  from  breaking  out  into  actual  anger — he 


36  HANNAH. 

who  was,  Rosa  used  to  assert,  the  sweetest-tempered  man, 
the  most  perfect  gentleman  in  all  the  world.  Yet  even 
his  crossness  w^as  pathetic — like  the  naughtiness  of  a  sick 
child,  who  does  not  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him. 
Hannah  felt  so  sorry  for  him !  She  longed  to  make  excuse 
for  those  domestic  delinquencies,  and  tell  him  she  would 
soon  put  all  right;  as  she  knew  she  could, having  been  her 
father's  housekeeper  ever  since  she  was  a  girl  of  sixteen. 

She  was  bold  enough  faintly  to  hint  this,  when  they  got 
into  the  drawing-room,  where  some  trivial  neglect  had  an- 
noyed him  excessively,  much  more  than  it  deserved ;  and 
she  offered  to  rectify  it. 

"Will  you  really?  Will  you  take  all  these  common 
household  cares  upon  yourself?" 

"  It  is  a  woman's  business ;  and  I  like  it." 

"  So  she  used  to  say.  She  used  constantly  to  be  longing 
for  you,  and  telling  me  how  comfortable  every  thing  was 
when  her  sister  was  housekeeper  at  home.     She — she — " 

It  was  the  first  time  the  desolate  man  had  ventured  off 
the  safe  track  of  commonplace  conversation,  and  though 
he  only  spoke  of  Rosa  as  "  she  " — it  seemed  impossible  to 
him  to  call  her  by  her  name — the  mere  reference  to  his 
dead  wife  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  All  the  flood- 
gates of  his  grief  burst  open. 

"Isn't  this  a  change! — a  terrible,  terrible  change!"  he 
cried,  looking  up  to  Hannah  with  anguish  in  his  eyes.  A 
child's  anguish  could  not  have  been  more  appealing,  more 
utterly  undisguised.  And,  sitting  down,  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  wept— also  like  a  child. 

Hannah  wept  too,  not  with  such  a  passionate  abandon- 
ment ;  it  was  against  her  nature,  woman  though  she  was. 
Her  own  long-past  sorrow,  which,  she  fancied,  most  resem- 
bled his,  and  had  first  drawn  her  to  him  with  a  strange 
sympathy,  had  been  a  grief  totally  silent.  From  the  day 
of  Arthur's  death  she  never  mentioned  her  cousin's  name. 
Consolation  she  had  never  asked  or  received  from  any 
human  being — this  sort  of  affliction  could  not  be  comfort- 
ed.    Therefore  she  scarcely  understood,  at  first,  how  Ber- 


HANNAH.  37 

nard  Rivers,  when  the  seal  was  once  broken,  poured  out 
the  whole  story  of  his  loss  in  a  continuous  stream.  For 
an  hour  or  more  he  sat  beside  her,  talking  of  Rosa's  ill- 
ness and  death,  and  all  he  had  suffered ;  and  then  going 
over  and  over  again,  with  a  morbid  intensity,  his  brief,, 
hapi^y  married  life  ;  apparently  finding  in  this  overflow  of 
heart  the  utmost  relief,  and  even  alleviation. 

Hannah  listened,  somewhat  surprised,  but  still  she  list- 
ened. The  man  and  the  woman  were  as  unlike  as  they 
well  could  be ;  yet,  thus  thrown  together — bound  togeth- 
er, as  it  were,  by  the  link  of  a  common  grief,  their  very 
dissimilarity,  and  the  necessity  it  involved  of  each  making 
allowances  for,  and  striving  heartily  not  to  misjudge  the 
other,  produced  a  certain  mutual  interest,  which  made 
even  their  first  sad  evening  not  quite  so  sad  as  it  might 
have  been. 

After  a  while  Hannah  tried  to  lure  Mr.  Rivers  out  of  his 
absorbing  and  pitiably  self-absorbed  grief  into  a  few  prac- 
tical matters ;  for  she  was  anxious  to  get  as  clear  an  idea 
as  she  could  of  her  own  duties  in  the  household  and  the 
parish.  Her  duties  only ;  her  position,  and  her  rights — if 
she  had  any — would,  she  knew,  fall  into  their  fitting  places 
by-and-by. 

"Yes,  I  have  a  large  income,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  sighing. 
"Far  too  large  for  me  and  that  poor  little  baby.  She 
would  have  enjoyed  it,  and  spent  it  wisely  and  well.  You 
shall  spend  it  instead.  You  shall  have  as  much  money  as 
you  want,  weekly  or  monthly ;  just  as  she  had.  Oh,  how 
clever  she  was  !  how  she  used  to  bring  me  her  books  to 
reckon  over,  and  make  such  fun  out  bf  them,  and  fall  into 
such  pretty  despair  if  they  were  the  least  bit  wrong  !  My 
own  Rosa !  My  merry,  happy  wife ! — yes,  I  know  I  made 
her  happy !     She  told  me  so — almost  her  last  words." 

"Thank  God  for  that!" 

"  I  do." 

Hannah  tried  to  put  into  the  heart-stricken  man  the  be- 
lief—  essentially  a  woman's  —  that  a  perfect  love,  even 
when  lost,  is  still  an  eternal  possession — a  pain  so  sacred 


38  HANNAH. 

that  its  deep  peace  often  grows  into  absolute  content. 
But  he  did  not  seem  to  understand  this  at  all.  His  pres- 
ent loss — the  continually  aching  want — the  daily  craving 
for  love  and  help  and  sympathy — these  were  all  he  felt, 
and  felt  with  a  keenness  indescribable.  How  could  the 
one  ever  be  filled  up  and  the  other  supplied  ? 

Hannah  could  not  tell.  She  grew  frightened  at  the  re- 
sponsibility she  had  undertaken.  A  kind  of  hopelessness 
came  over  her ;  she  almost  wished  herself  safe  back  again 
in  the  quiet  school-room  with  her  little  Ladies  Dacre. 
There,  at  least,  she  knew  all  her  duties,  and  could  fulfill 
them ;  here  they  already  seemed  so  complicated  that  how 
she  should  first  get  them  clear,  and  then  perform  them,  was 
more  than  she  knew.  However,  it  was  not  her  way  to 
meet  evils  beforehand,  or  to  try  and  put  more  than  the 
day's  work  into  the  day.  She  was  old  enough  to  have 
ceased  to  struggle  after  the  impossible. 

So  she  sat  watching,  with  a  pity  almost  motherly,  the 
desolate  man,  with  whom,  it  seemed,  for  a  time  at  least,  her 
lot  was  cast ;  inwardly  praying  that  she  might  have 
strength  to  do  her  duty  by  him,  and  secretly  hoping  that 
it  might  not  be  for  long ;  that  his  grief,  by  its  very  wild- 
ness  might  wear  itself  out,  and  the  second  marriage,  which 
Lady  Dunsmore  had  prognosticated  as  the  best  thing 
which  could  happen  to  him,  might  gradually  come  about. 

"Eosa  would  have  wished  it — even  Rosa,"  the  sister 
thought,  choking  down  a  not  unnatural  pang, "  could  she 
see  him  as  I  see  him  now." 

It  was  a  relief  to  catch  an  excuse  for  a  few  minutes'  ab- 
sence; she  took  out  her  watch,  and  told  her  brother-in- 
law  it  was  time  to  go  up  to  the  nursery. 

"^NTurse  does  not  like  it ;  I  see  that ;  but  still  I  must  go. 
Every  night  before  t  sleep  I  must  take  my  latest  peep  at 
baby." 

"Ah,  that  reminds  me — I  have  never  asked  you  what 
you  think  of  baby,  I  don't  know  how  it  is — I  fear  you 
will  think  me  very  wicked,"  added  the  widower,  sighing, 
"  but  I  can  not  take  the  interest  I  ouorht  to  take  in  that 


HANNAH.  39 

poor  child.  I  suppose  men  don't  care  for  babies — not  at 
first — and  then  her  birth  cost  me  so  much." 

"  It  was  God's  will  things  should  be  thus,"  answered 
Hannah,  gravely.  "  It  should  not  make  you  dislike  your 
child — Rosa's  child." 

"  God  forbid ! — only  that  I  can  not  feel  as  I  ought  to 
feel  toward  the  poor  little  thing." 

"  You  will  in  time."  And  Hannah  tried  to  draw  a  pic- 
ture such  as  might  touch  any  father's  heart — of  his  wee 
girl  toddling  after  him,  his  big  girl  taking  his  hand,  and 
beginning  to  ask  him  questions,  his  sweet,  grown-up  girl 
becoming  his  housekeeper,  companion,  and  friend. 

Mr.  Rivers  only  shook  his  head.  "Ah,  but  that  is  a  long 
time  to  wait.  I  want  a  friend  and  companion  now.  How 
am  I  ever  to  get  through  these  long,  lonely  years  ?" 

"  God  will  help  you,"  .said  Hannah,  solemnly,  and  then 
felt  half  ashamed,  remembering  she  was  preaching  to  a 
clergyman.  But  he  was  a  man,  too,  with  all  a  man's  weak- 
nesses, every  one  of  which  she  was  sure  to  find  out  ere 
long.  Even  already  she  had  found  out  a  good  many.  Evi- 
dently he  was  of  a  warm,  impulsive,  afiectionate  nature, 
sure  to  lay  upon  her  all  his  burdens.  She  would  have  the 
usual  lot  of  sisters,  to  share  most  of  the  cares  and  responsi- 
bilities of  a  wife,  without  a  wife's  blessings  or  a  wife's  love. 

"  I  must  go  now.     Good-night,"  she  said. 

"  Good-night  ?  N'ay,  surely  you  are  coming  back  to  me 
again  ?  You  don't  know  what  a  relief  it  has  been  to  talk 
to  you.  You  can  not  tell  how  terrible  to  me  are  these 
long,  lonely  evenings." 

A  moan,  to  Hannah  incomprehensible.  For  her  solitude 
had  no  terror — had  never  had.  In  early  youth  she  would 
sit  and  dream  for  hours  of  the  future — a  future  which  never 
came.  Now  she  had  done  with  dreaming ;  the  present  suf- 
ficed her — and  the  past.  She  liked  thinking  of  her  dear 
ones  living,  her  still  dearer  ones  dead,  and  found  in  their 
peaceful,  unseen  companionship  all  she  required.  Never 
was  there  a  person  less  dependent  on  outward  society. 
And  yet  when  she  had  it  she  rather  enjoyed  it — only  she 


40  HANNAH, 

never  craved  after  it,  nor  was  it  any  necessity  oi  her  ex. 
istence.  On  such  women,  who  themselves  can  stand  alone, 
others  always  come  and  lean — men  especially. 

As  Miss  Thelluson  quitted  him,  Mr.  Rivers  looked  after 
her  with  those  restless,  miserable  eyes  of  his,  from  which 
the  light  of  happiness  seemed  fled  forever. 

"  Pray  come  back  soon,"  he  said,  imploringly.  "  I  do 
so  hate  my  own  company." 

"  Poor  man !  How  sad  it  would  be  if  we  women  felt 
the  same  !"  thought  Hannah.  And  she,  who  understood, 
and  could  endure,  not  only  solitude  but  sorrow,  took  some 
comfort  to  herself— a  little  more,  also,  in  the  hope  of  im- 
parting  comfort. 

A  child  asleep  !  Painters  draw  it.  Poets  sing  about 
it.  Yet  the  root  of  its  mystery  remains  a  mystery  still. 
About  it  seem  to  float  the  secrets  of  earth  and  heaven — 
life  and  death  ;  whence  we  come,  and  whither  we  go :  what 
God  does  with  and  in  us,  and  what  He  expects  us  to  do  for 
ourselves.  It  is  as  if,  while  we  gaze,  we  could  catch  drift- 
ing past  us  a  few  threads  of  that  wonderful  web — which, 
in  its  entirety.  He  holds  solely  in  His  own  hands. 

Hannah  Thelluson  looked  on  this  sleeper  of  six  months 
old  with  a  feeling  of  not  merely  tenderness,  but  awe.  She 
listened  to  the  soft  breathing — which  might  have  to  draw 
its  last  sigh — who  knows  ? — perhaps  eighty  years  hence, 
when  she  and  all  her  generation  were  dead,  buried,  and 
forgotten.  The  solemnity  of  the  charge  she  had  under- 
taken came  upon  her  tenfold.  She  stood  in  the  empty 
nursery,  apparently  left  deserted  for  hours,  for  the  fire  was 
out,  and  the  candle  flickered  in  its  socket.  Strange  shad- 
ows came  and  went ;  among  them  one  might  almost  im- 
agine human  shapes — perhaps  the  dead  mother  gliding  in 
to  look  at  her  lonely  child.  Even  as  in  some  old  ballad 
about  a  cruel  step-mother — 

*'The  niclit  was  lang  and  the  bairnies  grat, 
Their  mither  she  under  the  mools  heard  that. 

"She  washed  the  tane  and  buskit  her  fair, 
She  karaed  and  plaited  the  tither's  hair;" 


HANNAH.  41 

and  then  reproached  the  new  wife,  saying  —  the  words 
came  vividly  back  upon  Hannah's  mind — 
**I  left  ye  candles  and  groff  wax- light — 
My  baimies  sleep  i'  the  mirk  o'  night, 

**I  left  ye  mony  braw  bolsters  blae — 
My  bairnies  ligg  i'  the  bare  strae." 

A  notion  pathetic  in  its  very  extravagance.  To  Hannah 
Thelluson  it  scarcely  seemed  wonderful  that  any  mother 
should  rise  up  from  "  under  the  mools,"  and  come  thus  to 
the  rescue  of  her  children. 

"  Oh,  if  this  baby's  father  ever  brings  home  a  strange 
woman  to  be  unkind  to  her,  what  shall  I  do  ?  Any  thing, 
I  think,  however  desperate.  Rosa,  my  poor  Rosa,  you 
may  rest  in  peace.  God  do  so  to  me,  and  more  also,  as 
the  Bible  says,  if  ever  I  forsake  your  child." 

While  she  spoke,  half  aloud,  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,  nurse."  But  it  was  not  the  nurse ;  it  was 
the  father. 

"  I  could  not  rest.  I  thought  I  would  come  too.  They 
never  let  me  look  at  baby." 

"  Look,  then.  Isn't  she  sweet  ?  See  how  her  little  fin- 
gers curl  round  her  papa's  hand  already." 

Mr.  Rivers  bent  over  the  crib — not  unmoved.  "My 
poor  little  girl !  Do  you  think,  Aunt  Hannah,  that  she 
will  ever  be  fond  of  me  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  she  will." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  so  fond  of  her." 

Hannah  smiled  at  the  deduction.  It  was  not  her  no- 
tion of  loving — especially  of  loving  a  child.  She  had  had 
enough  to  do  with  children  to  feel  keenly  the  truth  that, 
mostly,  one  has  to  give  all  and  expect  nothing — at  least, 
for  many  years.  But  it  was  useless  to  say  this,  or  to  put 
any  higher  ideal  of  paternal  affection  into  the  young  fa- 
ther's head.  He  was  so  completely  a  young  man  still,  she 
said  to  herself;  and  felt  almost  old  enough,  and  experi- 
enced enough,  to  be  his  mother. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Rivers  seemed  much  affected  by  the 
sight  of  his  child,  evidently  rather  a  rare  occurrence. 


42  HANNAH, 

"  I  think  she  is  growing  prettier,"  he  said.  "  Anyhow, 
she  looks  very  jDeaceable  and  sweet.  I  should  like  to  take 
her  and  cuddle  her,  only  she  would  wake  and  scream." 

"I  am  afraid  she  would,"  said  Hannah,  smiling.  "  You 
had  better  go  away.     See,  there  comes  nurse." 

— ^Who  entered  in  somewhat  indignant  astonishment,  at 
finding  not  only  Miss  Thelluson,  but  Mr.  Rivers,  intruding 
on  her  domains.  Whereupon  the  latter,  with  true  mascu- 
line cowardice,  disappeared  at  once. 

But  when  Aunt  Hannah — who  accepted  gladly  the  wel- 
come name — rejoined  him  in  the  drawing-room,  she  found 
him  pacing  to  and  fro  with  agitated  steps. 

"  Come  in,  sister,  my  good  sister.  Tell  me  you  don't 
think  me  such  a  brute  as  I  have  been  saying  to  myself  I 
am.  Else  why  should  that  woman  have  thought  it  so  ex- 
traordinary— my  coming  to  look  at  my  own  child  ?  But 
I  do  not  mean  to  be  a  brute.  I  am  only  a  miserable  man, 
indifferent  to  every  thing  in  this  mortal  world.  Tell  me, 
shall  I  ever  get  out  of  this  wretched  state  of  mind  ?  Shall 
I  ever  be  able  to  endure  my  life  again  ?" 

What  could  Hannah  say?  or  would  there  be  any  good 
in  saying  it?  Can  the  experience  of  one  heart  teach  an- 
other ?  or  must  each  find  out  the  lesson  for  itself?  I  fear 
so.  Should  she — as,  with  the  strange  want  of  reticence 
which  men  sometimes  exhibit  much  more  than  we  women, 
he  poured  forth  the  anguish  of  his  life — open  to  him  that 
long-hidden  and  now  healed,  though  never-forgotten,  woe 
of  hers?  But  no!  she  could  not.  It  was  too  sacred. 
All  she  found  possible  was  gently  to  lead  him  back  to 
their  old  subject  of  talk — commonplace,  practical  things 
— the  daily  interests  and  duties  by  which,  as  a  clergyman, 
lie  was  necessarily  surrounded,  and  out  of  which  he  might 
take  some  comfort.  She  was  sure  he  might  if  he  chose ; 
she  told  him  so. 

"  Oh  no,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "  Comfort  is  vain.  I  am  a 
broken-down  man.  I  shall  never  be  of  any  good  to  any 
body !  But  you  will  take  care  of  my  house  and  my  child. 
Do  just  as  you  fancy.     Have  every  thing  your  own  way." 


HANNAH.  ^  43 

"In  one  thing  I  should  like  to  have  at  once  my  own 
way,"  said  she,  rushing  desperately  upon  a  subject  which 
she  had  been  resolving  on  all  the  evening.  "I  want  to 
change  rooms  with  baby." 

"Why?  Is  not  yours  comfortable?  Those  horrid 
servants  of  mine !  I  desired  them  to  give  you  the  pleas- 
antest  room  in  the  house." 

"  So  it  is ;  and  for  that  very  reason  baby  ought  to  have 
it.  A  delicate  child  like  her  should  live  in  sunshine,  phys- 
ically and  morally,  all  day  long.  The  nursery  only  catches 
the  sun  for  an  hour  in  the  day." 

"How  can  you  tell,  when  you  have  not  been  twelve 
hours  in  the  house  ?" 

She  touched  the  tiny  compass  which  hung  at  her  watch- 
chain. 

"  What  a  capital  idea  !  What  a  very  sensible  woman 
you  must  be !"  And  Mr.  Rivers  smiled  for  the  first  time 
that  evening.     Miss  Thelluson  smiled  too. 

"  What  would  become  of  a  governess  if  she  were  not  sen- 
sible ?     Then  I  may  have  my  way  ?" 

"  Of  course  !  Only — what  shall  I  say  to  grandmam- 
ma? She  chose  the  nursery,  and  was  quite  content 
with  it." 

"  Grandmamma  is  probably  one  of  the  old  school,  to 
whom  light  and  air  were  quite  unnecessary  luxuries — nay, 
rather  annoyances." 

"Yet  the  old  school  brought  up  their  children  to  be  as 
healthy  as  ours." 

"  Because  they  were  probably  stronger  than  ours :  we 
have  to  pay  for  the  errors  of  a  prior  generation ;  or  else 
the  strong  ones  only  lived,  the  weakly  were  killed  off  pret- 
ty fast.  But  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  set  me  on  my  hob- 
by— a  governess's  hobby — the  bringing  up  of  the  new  gen- 
eration. Besides,  you  know  the  proverb  about  the  perfect- 
ness  of  old  bachelors'  wives  and  old  maids'  children." 

"  You  are  not  like  an  old  maid,  and  still  less  like  a  gov- 
erness." He  meant  this  for  a  compliment,  but  it  was  not 
accepted  as  such. 


44  HANNAH. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  am  both,"  answered  Miss  Thelluson, 
gravely.     "  Nor  am  I  ashamed  of  it  either." 

"  Certainly  not ;  there  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  said 
Mr.  Rivers,  coloring.  He  could  not  bear  in  the  smallest  de- 
gree to  hurt  people's  feelings,  and  had  painfully  sensitive 
feelings  of  his  own.  Then  came  an  awkward  pause,  after 
which  conversation  flagged  to  a  considerable  degree. 

Hannah  began  to  think,  what  in  the  wide  world  should 
she  do  if  she  and  her  brother-in-law  had  thus  to  sit  opposite 
to  one  another,  evening  after  evening,  through  the  long  win- 
ter's nights,  thrown  exclusively  upon  each  other's  society, 
bound  to  be  mutually  agreeable,  or,  at  any  rate,  not  disa- 
greeable, yet  lacking  the  freedom  that  exists  between  hus- 
band and  wife,  or  brother  and  sister  who  have  grown  up 
together,  and  been  used  to  one  another  all  their  lives.  It 
was  a  position  equally  difficult  and  anomalous.  She  wished 
she  had  known  Mr.  Rivers  more  intimately  during  Rosa's 
lifetime ;  yet  this  would  have  availed  her  little,  for  even 
that  intimacy  would  necessarily  have  been  limited.  A  re- 
ticent woman  never,  under  any  circumstances,  cares  to  be 
very  familiar  with  another  woman's  husband,  even  though 
he  be  the  husband  of  her  own  sister.  She  may  like  him  sin* 
cerely,  he  may  be  to  her  a  most  true  and  affectionate  friend, 
but  to  have  his  constant  exclusive  society,  day  after  day 
and  evening  after  evening,  she  would  either  find  extreme- 
ly irksome — or,  if  she  did  not — God  help  her!  Even  under 
the  most  innocent  circumstances  such  an  attraction  would 
be  a  sad — nay,  a  fatal  thing  to  both  parties.  People  talk 
about  open  jealousies ;  but  the  secret  heart-burnings  that 
arise  from  misunderstood,  half-misunderstood,  or  wholly 
false  positions  between  men  and  women,  are  much  worse. 
It  is  the  unuttered  sorrows,  the  unadmitted  and  irapossible- 
to-be-avenged  wrongs,  which  cause  the  sharpest  pangs  of 
existence. 

Not  that  Miss  Thelluson  thought  about  these  things ; 
indeed,  she  was  too  much  perplexed  and  bewildered  by 
her  new  position  to  think  much  about  any  thing  beyond 
the  moment,  but  she  felt  sufficiently  awkward  and  uncom- 


HANNAH.  45 

fortaLle  to  make  ber  seize  eagerly  upon  any  convenient 
topic  of  conversation. 

"  Are  they  all  well  at  the  Moat  House  ?  I  suppose  I 
shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  some  of  your  family  to- 
morrow ?" 

"  If —  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  of  calling  there.  I 
must  apologize" — and  he  looked  more  apologetic  than 
seemed  even  necessary — "  I  believe  Lady  Rivers  ought  to 
call  upon  you;  but  she  is  growing  old  now.  You  must 
make  allowances." 

His  was  a  tell-tale  face.  Hannah  guessed  at  once  that 
she  would  have  a  difficult  part  to  play  between  her  broth- 
er-in-law and  his  family.  But  she  cared  not.  She  seemed 
not  to  care  much  for  any  thing  or  any  body  now — excej^t 
that  little  baby  up  stairs. 

"  One  always  makes  allowances  for  old  people,"  answered 
she,  gently. 

"And  for  young  people,  too,"  continued  Mr.  Rivers,  with 
some  anxiety.  "My  sisters  are  so  gay — so  careless-hearted 
— thoughtless,  if  you  will." 

Hannah  smiled.  "  I  think  I  shall  have  too  busy  a  life 
to  be  likely  to  see  much  of  your  sisters.  And,  I  promise 
you,  I  will,  as  you  say,  'make  allowances' — except  in  one 
thing."  And  there  came  a  sudden  flash  into  the  deep- 
set  gray  eyes  which  made  Mr.  Rivers  start,  and  doubt  if 
his  sister-in-law  was  such  a  very  quiet  woman  after  all. 
"  They  must  not  interfere  with  me  in  my  bringing  up  of 
my  sister's  child.  There,  I  fear,  they  might  find  me  a  little 
—difficult." 

"No.  Yon  will  have  no  difficulty  there,"  said  he,  hast- 
ily. "  In  truth,  my  people  live  too  much  a  life  of  society 
to  trouble  themselves  about  domestic  concerns,  especially 
babies.  They  scarcely  ever  see  Rosie ;  and  when  they  do 
they  always  moan  over  her  —  say  what  a  pity  it  is  she 
wasn't  a  boy,  and  that  she  is  so  delicate  she  will  never  be 
reared.     Bat,  please  God,  they  may  be  mistaken." 

"  They  shall,"  said  Hannah,  between  her  teeth,  feeling 
that,  if  she  could  so  bargain  with  Providence,  she  would 


46  HANNAH. 

gladly  exchange  ten  or  twenty  years  of  her  own  pale  life 
for  that  little  life  just  beginning,  the  destiny  of  which 
none  could  foresee. 

Mr.  Rivers  went  on  talking.  It  seemed  such  a  relief  to 
him  to  talk. 

"  Of  course,  my  father  and  they  all  would  have  liked  a 
boy  best.  My  eldest  brother,  you  are  aware — well,  poor 
fellow,  he  grows  worse  instead  of  better.  None  of  us  ever 
see  him  now.  I  shall  be  the  last  of  my  name.  A  name 
which  has  descended  in  an  unbroken  line,  they  say,  for 
centuries.  We  are  supposed  to  have  been  De  la  Riviere, 
and  to  have  come  over  with  William  the  Conqueror.  Not 
that  I  care  much  for  this  sort  of  thing."  And  yet  he  look- 
ed as  if  he  did,  a  little ;  and,  standing  by  his  fireside,  tall 
and  handsome,  Avith  his  regular  Norman  features,  and 
well-knit  Norman  frame,  he  was  not  an  unworthy  repre- 
t^cntative  of  a  race  which  must  have  had  sufficient  elements 
of  greatness,  physical  and  moral,  to  be  able  to  keep  itself 
out  of  obscurity  all  these  centuries.  "  I  am  rather  Whig- 
gish  myself;  but  Sir  Austin  is  a  Tory  of  the  old  school, 
and  has  certain  crotchets  about  keeping  up  the  family. 
Things  are  just  a  little  hard  for  my  father." 

"  What  is  hard  ?  I  beg  your  pardon — I  am  afraid  I  was 
not  paying  much  attention  to  what  you  said  just  then.  I 
thought,"  Hannah  laughed  and  blushed  a  little — "I  thought 
I  heard  the  baby." 

Mr.  Rivers  laughed  too.  "  The  baby  will  be  Aunt  Han- 
nah's idol,  I  see.  Don't  spoil  her,  that  is  all.  Grandmam- 
ma is  always  warning  me  that  she  must  not  be  spoiled." 
Then  seeing  the  same  ominous  flash  in  Miss  Thelluson's 
eye,  he  added,  "  Nay,  nay ;  you  shall  have  Rosie  all  to 
yourself,  never  fear.  I  am  only  too  thankful  to  get  you 
here.  I  hope  you -will  make  yourself  happy.  Preserve  for 
me  my  fragile  little  flower,  my  only  child,  and  I  shall  bless 
you  all  my  days." 

Hannah  silently  extended  her  hand  :  her  brother-in-law 
grasped  it  warmly.  Tears  stood  in  both  their  eyes,  but 
still  the  worst  of  this  meeting  was  over.    They  had  reached 


HANNAH.  47 

the  point  when  they  could  talk  calmly  of  ordinary  things, 
and  consult  together  over  the  motherless  child,  who  was 
now  first  object  to  both.  And  though,  whether  the  wid- 
ower felt  it  or  not,  Hannah  still  felt  poor  Rosa's  continual 
presence,  as  it  were;  heard  her  merry  voice  in  pauses  of 
conversation ;  saw  the  shadow  of  her  dainty  little  form 
standing  by  her  husband's  side — these  remembrances  she 
knew  were  morbid,  and  not  to  be  encouraged.  They  would 
fade,  and  they  ought  to  fade,  gradually  and  painlessly,  in 
the  busy  anxieties  of  real  life.  Which  of  us,  in  dying, 
would  wish  it  to  be  otherwise  ?  Would  we  choose  to  be 
to  our  beloved  a  perpetually  aching  grief,  or  a  tender,  holy 
memory  ?  I  think,  the  latter.  Hannah,  who  knew  some- 
thing about  sorrow,  thought  so  too. 

"Good -night,"  she  said,  rising,  not  regretfully,  the  in- 
stant the  clock  struck  ten.  "  I  am  an  early  bird,  night 
and  morning.  Shall  you  object  to  that  ?  Xo  house  goes 
well  unless  the  mistress  is  early  in  the  morning." 

The  moment  she  had  said  the  word  she  would  have 
given  any  thing  to  unsay  it.  That  sweet,  dead  mistress, 
who  used  to  come  fluttering  down  stairs  like  a  white  bird, 
with  a  face  fresh  as  a  rose  —  would  the  time  ever  come 
when  her  husband  had  forgotten  her  ? 

Not  now,  at  any  rate.  "  Yes,"  he  answered,  with  evi- 
dent pain.  "  Yes  ;  you  are  the  mistress  here  now.  I  put 
you  exactly  in  her  place — to  manage  every  thing  as  she 
did.  She  would  wish  it  so.  Oh,  if  we  only  had  her  back 
again ! — ^just  for  one  week,  one  day  !  But  she  never  will 
come  back  any  more  !" 

He  turned  away,  the  forlorn  man  whom  God  had  smit- 
ten with  the  heaviest  sorrow,  the  sharpest  loss,  that  a  man 
can  know.  What  consofation  could  Hannah  offer  him? 
None,  except  the  feeble  one  that,  in  some  measure,  she 
could  understand  his  grief;  because  over  her  love  too  the 
grave  had  closed.  For  a  moment  she  thought  she  would 
say  that;  but  her  lips,  when  she  opened  them,  seemed  par- 
alyzed. Not  yet,  at  any  rate  —  not  yet.  Not  till  she 
knew  him  better,  and,  perhaps,  he  her. 


48  HANNAH. 

So  she  only  took  his  hand,  and  again  said, "  Good-night,'* 
adding  softly, "  God  bless  you  and  yours  !" 

"lie  has  blessed  us,  in  sending  Aunt  Hannah  to  take 
care  of  us." 

And  so  that  first  evening,  which  she  had  looked  for- 
ward to  with  no  small  dread,  was  over  and  done. 

But  long  after  Hannah  had  retired  she  heard  her  broth- 
er-in-law walking  about  the  house  with  restless  persistency, 
opening  and  shutting  door  after  door,  then  ascending  to 
his  own  room  with  weary  steps,  and  locking  himself  in — 
not  to  sleep,  for  he  had  told  her  that  he  often  lay  awake 
till  dawn.  She  did  not  sleep  either;  her  thoughts  were 
too  busy,  and  the  change  in  her  monotonous  life  too  sud- 
den and  complete  for  any  thing  like  repose. 

She  sat  at  her  window  and  looked  out.  It  was  a  good- 
ly night,  and  the  moon  made  every  thing  bright  as  day. 
All  along  the  hill-top  was  a  clear  view,  but  the  valley  be- 
low was  filled  with  mist,  under  which  its  features,  whether 
beautiful  or  not,  were  utterly  indistinguishable.  That 
great  white  sea  of  vapor  looked  as  mysterious  as  the  to- 
morrow into  which  she  could  not  penetrate ;  the  new  life, 
full  of  new  duties  and  ties,  now  opening  before  her  just 
when  she  thought  all  were  ended.  It  interested  her  a  lit- 
tle. She  wondered  vaguely  how  things  would  turn  out, 
just  as  she  wondered  how  the  valley,  hid  under  that  misty 
sea,  would  look  at  six  o'clock  next  morning.  But  soon 
her  mind  went  back,  as  it  always  did  in  the  moonlight,  to 
lier  own  silent  past— her  own  people,  her  father,  mother, 
sisters,  all  dead  and  buried — to  her  lost  Arthur,  with 
whom  life  too  was  quite  done.  He  seemed  to  be  saying 
to  her,  not  near,  for  he  had  been  dead  so  long  that  even 
his  memory  had  grown  phant(5m-like  and  far  away,  but 
whispering  from  some  distant  sphere  words  she  had  read 
somewhere  the  other  day — 

*'  Oil,  maid  most  dear,  I  am  not  here, 
I  have  no  place,  no  part : 
No  dwelling  more  on  sea  or  shore — 
But  only  in  thv  heart." 


HANNAH.  49 


"  In  my  heart !  in  my  heart !"  she  repeated  to  herself, 
and  thought  how  impossible  it  was  that  any  living  love 
could  ever  have  supplanted — ever  could  supplant — the 
dead. 


CHAPTER  III. 


This  is  no  sensational  or  exceptional  history,  but  one  that 
might  happen — does  happen  —  continually.  The  persons 
therein  described  are  just  ordinary  people,  neither  ideally 
good  nor  extraordinarily  bad.  Not  so  weak  as  to  be  the 
mere  sport  of  circumstances,  yet  human  enough  to  be  influ- 
enced thereby,  as  we  all  are.  In  short,  neither  heroes  nor 
heroines,  but  men  and  women  —  the  men  and  women  of 
whom  society  is  mainly  composed,  and  for  which  it  has 
to  legislate. 

Hannah  Thelluson  was  no  heroine,  Bernard  Rivers  no 
hero ;  and  they  had  not  lived  many  days  under  the  same 
roof  before  they  made  that  mutual  discovery — more  espe- 
cially as  they  had  plenty  of  spare  time  in  which  to  make 
it;  for,  the  fine  autumn  melting  in  continuous  rain,  no 
visitors  came  near  the  House  on  the  Hill — not  even  from 
the  Moat  House.  Miss  Thelluson  had  called  there,  as  she 
promised ;  but  the  family  were  out  driving.  Next  day  a 
footman  brought  her  the  cards  of  Lady  and  the  Misses 
Rivers,  with  an  apology  for  not  calling,  on  account  of  the 
rain. 

"They  will  ask  you  to  dinner  next;  my  people  are  very 
particular  on  points  of  etiquette,"  observed  Mr.  Rivers, 
evidently  annoyed. 

But  Hannah  was  not  annoyed  at  all.  Not  even  when 
the  invitation  never  came,  and  the  rain  cleared  up;  yet 
somehow  or  other  she  had  been  nearly  three  weeks  at 
Easterham  without  having  once  met  her  brother-in-law's 
family. 

Of  Mr.  Rivers  himself  she  had  enough  and  to  spare.  It 
is  a  severe  trial  for  any  two  people  to  be  thrown  on  one 

C 


60  HANNAH. 

another's  exclusive  society — at  meal-times,  and  all  other 
times  that  politeness  requires — striving  in  a  hopeless  man- 
ner to  make  conversation,  eager  to  find  out  and  seize  upon 
the  smallest  point  of  mutual  interest  which  will  break  the 
dull  monotony  of  the  time.  What  they  were  to  her  broth- 
er-in-law Hannah  could  not  tell,  but  to  her  the  first  four 
days  seemed  like  fourteen. 

It  was  not  from  the  dullness,  which  she  would  have  put 
up  with,  being  a  very  patient  woman;  but  Mr.  Rivers 
sometimes  vexed  her  exceedingly.  His  desultory,  lazy 
way  of  hanging  about  the  house,  his  variableness,  his  ir- 
ritability, and,  above  all,  his  indifference  and  carelessness 
about  every  body  and  every  thing,  were  —  to  a  woman 
who  all  her  life  had  found  plenty  to  do,  and  if  she  could 
not  find  work,  made  it — utterly  incomprehensible. 

"But  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  am  a  woman,  and  have 
never  been  used  to  live  with  any  man — except  my  father, 
and  he  was  not  a  man ;  he  was  an  angel !" 

So  she  argued  with  herself,  and  "  did  her  duty,"  as  she 
considered  it,  to  the  full ;  placing  herself  at  Mr.  Rivers's 
beck  and  call  every  hour  in  the  day,  following  him  about 
obediently,  as  he  evidently  liked  to  be  followed ;  for  his 
craving  after  sympathy  and  his  horror  of  solitude  were 
almost  painful  to  witness :  in  short,  trying  to  devote  her- 
self to  him  as  a  nurse  does  to  a  sickly,  naughty  child — 
naughty  because  sickly.  But  she  did  not  enjoy  this  task. 
His  unhappy,  restless  face  made  her  heart  ache ;  his  aim- 
less, useless  life  afflicted  her  conscience.  A  man,  a  father, 
a  clergyman — surely  he  was  made  for  better  things.  If 
Heaven  had  taken  away  his  delights,  his  duties  still  were 
left  him.     He  ought  to  rouse  himself. 

And  one  day,  driven  almost  to  desperation  by  the  way 
in  which  he  had  done  nothing,  hour  after  hour,  but  moon 
about  and  "  bother  "  her,  as  an  idle,  melancholy  man  does 
bother  a  busy  woman — and  Hannah  had  not  been  twenty- 
four  hours  in  that  chaotic,  headless  house  before  her  head 
and  hands  were  quite  full  of  business — she  ventured  to 
hint  this. 


HANNAH.  51 

"  Work !"  he  answered.  "  I  have  no  work ;  nothing  that 
I  care  to  do.  She  always  did  every  thing  with  me;  we 
w^ent  about  the  parish  together ;  she  used  to  call  herself 
my  curate  in  petticoats ;  and  the  curate  was  much  more 
useful  than  the  vicar,  I  believe.  Oh,  Hannah  !  you  knew 
what  she  was,  but   you  never  knew  w^hat  she  was  to 


me 


!" 


A  tender  idealization,  perhaps ;  but  the  sister  felt  it 
deeply.  Every  memory  of  poor  Rosa  was  most  sacred  to 
her  heart  too. 

"  But,"  she  reasoned,  "  is  there  nothing  you  could  do,  if 
only  for  Rosa's  sake?  She  could  not  bear  to  see  the  par- 
ish neglected,  as  you  say  it  is.  She  w^ould  like  you  to  look 
after  the  poor  and  the  sick,  and  carry  them  comfort." 

"  I  carry  comfort !" 

"Those  can  who  have  known  sorrow." 

The  widower  looked  at  her,  uncomprehendingly,  with  his 
wild,  wistful,  miserable  eyes— this  woman  so  quiet,  so  gen- 
tle, yet  somewhat  sad  too. 

"  You  have  known  sorrow  ?" 

"I  have." 

"  Can  you  teach  me  how  to  bear  mine  ?" 

What  she  answered  was  very  little,  but  it  was  to  the 
purpose ;  something  like  what  the  Lord  said  to  the  man 
sick  of  palsy — what  He  says  to  every  man  who  is  sinking 
under  the  paralysis  of  grief — "  Rise  up  and  walk !"  She 
told  him  in  plain  words,  that  instead  of  sitting  at  home  to 
mourn,  he  ought  to  go  out  and  work. 

"  I  would,  only  I  have  no  heart  to  go  alone.  There  is 
an  endless  number  of  parish  visits  due — where  she  always 
went  with  me.     If — " 

He  hesitated.  Hannah  hesitated  too.  It  seemed  usurp- 
ing so  pointedly  the  place  of  the  dead;  and  yet — that 
dreary,  helpless,  appealing  look  of  the  lonely  man  ! 

"  If  you  like — that  is,  if  you  do  not  dislike  my  coming, 
and  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you — " 

"  Would  you  go  with  me  ?  That  would  be  so  very  kind. 
Only  this  muddy,  damp  day — " 


62  HANNAH. 

"  Oh,  I  never  mind  mud  or  rain !" 

"  Nor  trouble,  nor  fatigue,  nor  any  thing  else  unpleasant, 
so  long  as  you  can  do  a  kindness.  She  always  said  so,  and 
now  I  have  found  it  out  for  myself." 

Hannah  smiled.  Until  now  she  had  no  idea  whether 
her  brother-in-law  liked  her  or  not,  and  she  was  not  above 
the  pleasantness  of  being  liked.  "  Suppose,  then,  I  go  and 
put  on  my  bonnet  at  once  ?"  And  as  she  did  so  she  caught 
a  sight  of  her  own  face  in  the  glass,  smiling.  "  If  he  likes 
me  I  may  get  some  influence  over  him,  so  as  to  make  my 
duty  easier.  And  I  will  try  to  see  his  faults  less  plainly, 
and  his  good  points  plainer,  as  people  should  who  are 
obliged  to  live  together.  How  shall  I  be  able  to  teach  my 
little  girlie  to  love  her  father  if  I  do  not  love  him  myself 
a  little  ?    I  may  in  time  !" 

And  she  went  down  stairs  with  a  more  cheerful  heart. 

After  that  nearly  every  day  she  and  "  the  parson  "  went 
out  together,  and  he  made  her  acquainted  with  all  the 
poor  people  in  the  village.  Only  the  poor.  The  few  big 
houses  there  were,  taking  their  cue  from  the  biggest  of  all 
— the  Moat  House — or  from  some  other  mysterious  reason, 
into  which  Miss  Thelluson  did  not  care  to  penetrate,  but 
which  apparently  annoyed  Mr.  Rivers  a  good  deal — of 
these  she  saw  nothing.     They  did  not  call. 

Little  she  cared.  Every  minute  of  her  day  was  occu- 
pied. Household  affairs,  parish  work,  the  endless  help  that 
her  brother-in-law  soon  came  to  expect  from  her.  Often 
Hannah  smiled  to  herself  at  finding  that  before  her  new 
life  had  lasted  twenty  days,  she  was  growing  a  busier 
woman  than  ever — too  busy  to  heed  outside  things.  Be- 
sides, in  addition  to  all  this,  there  had  come  over  her  a 
change  which  made  her  feel  as  if  outside  things  never 
could  affect  her  any  more.     She  had  fallen  in  love. 

Smile  not,  readers — masculine  readers  especially — who 
think  that  w^e  women  can  fall  in  love  with  nothing  but 
your  noble  selves.  The  object  of  Hannah's  passion  was 
only — a  baby  ! 

People  say  that  babies  are  all  alike ;  but  it  is  to  those 


HANNAH.  53 

who  do  not  discriminate  them  or  love  them,  who  take  no 
interest  in  that  wonderful  and  most  pathetic  sight — the 
growth  of  a  human  soul.  Ay,  and  a  child's  soul  begins  to 
grow  almost  as  soon  as  it  is  born.  Within  three  months 
— mothers  know — you  can  almost  see  it  growing.  At 
least  in  most  children. 

Now,  at  nine  months  old,  little  Rosie  Rivers  was  an  act- 
ual, individual  character,  with  an  individual  soul.  It  had 
shone  out  of  her  eyes  that  very  first  morning  when  she 
opened  and  fixed  them  on  her  aunt,  who  sat  beside  her, 
watching  for  her  waking.  And  when  Hannah  took  the 
little  white  bundle  in  her  arms,  Rosie  first  drew  herself 
back,  and  with  grave,  sad,  appealing  eyes,  intently  con- 
templated the  stranger.  "  Who  are  you  ?  What  do  you 
want  with  me  ?  Are  you  going  to  be  kind  to  me  ?"  said 
the  mute  little  face  as  plain  as  any  words.  Then,  as  if 
satisfied  with  her  investigation,  she  slowly  dropped  her 
head  on  her  aunt's  shoulder,  and  Hannah  pressed  her  pas- 
sionately to  her  breast. 

Thus  they  fell  in  love — the  woman  and  the  child — and 
the  love  grew  day  by  day  in  a  miraculous — no  !  in  not  any 
miraculous  way.  Children  have  a  heavenly  instinct  in 
finding  good  people,  and  people  that  love  them,  in  whom 
they  may  safely  trust.  Ere  two  days  were  over  Rosie 
would  leave  any  body  to  go  to  her  aunt's  arms.  As  for 
Hannah,  she  could  not  get  enough  of  her  felicity.  Had 
she  not  longed  for  this,  ay,  ever  since  she  had  dressed  up 
her  big  doll  in  her  own  half-worn  baby-clothes,  and  caressed 
it  with  all  a  mother's  devotedness,  at  eleven  years  old  ?  To 
have  a  baby — a  baby  of  her  very  own,  as  it  were  (for 
nurse  had  given  warning  at  once),  it  was  perfect  content. 
Every  minute  that  she  could  steal  from  Rosie's  father  she 
gave  to  the  child :  she  would  have  liked  to  be  in  the  nurs- 
ery all  day  long.  When  wearied  out  with  Mr.  Rivers's 
restlessness,  saddened  by  his  gloomy  face,  she  would  fly 
for  refuge  to  that  sunshiny  room — her  own  room — which 
she  had  made  as  cozy  and  pretty  as  she  could,  and  find 
it  a  heaven  of  peace  ;  for  the  bright  little  face,  the  happy 


64  HANNAH. 

little  voice,  were  something  nearer  heaven  than  any  thing 
her  life  had  as  yet  ever  known. 

It  might  not  have  been  the  same  with  all  children ;  but 
the  poor,  motherless  Rosie  was  a  very  original  child. 
Small,  quiet,  gentle,  pale,  there  was  yet  in  the  baby  mouth 
a  firm  little  will  of  its  own ;  and  in  the  serious  eyes  a 
strange  out-looking,  as  if  seeing  something  grown-up  peo- 
ple could  not  see — seeking,  perhaps,  the  mother  she  was 
never  to  know.  Yery  soon  Hannah  learned  to  think  that 
tiny  face  unlike  all  the  faces  she  had  ever  beheld.  Not 
that  it  was  pretty — poor  Kosie  was  wholly  unworthy, 
physically,  of  her  handsome  father  and  beautiful  mother — 
but  it  had  such  a  world  of  changeful  meanings  in  it ;  it 
was  such  a  wonderful  thing  to  study  and  marvel  over.  In 
its  peaceful,  heavenly  dumbness  it  seemed  to  come  to  the 
lonely,  shut-up  woman  like  a  face  out  of  the  unknown 
world. 

Such  a  companion  Rosie  was,  too  !  Miss  Thelluson  was 
accustomed  to  big  pupils ;  and,  fond  as  she  was  of  chil- 
dren, they  sometimes  worried  her;  but  this  soft  silent 
creature,  with  its  pretty  ways ;  its  speechless  yet  intelli- 
gible wants,  only  soothed  her,  and  that  inexpressibly.  She 
would  sit  or  lie  for  hours  on  the  nursery  floor  with  Rosie 
crowing  over  her,  investigating  her  watch,  her  keys,  het 
hair,  her  dress,  with  that  endless  pursuit  of  knowledge 
under  difficulties  peculiar  to  infants  who  are  just  catching 
hold  of  the  key  of  mystery  which  unlocks  to  them  the 
marvelous  visible  world. 

And  the  world  invisible — even  that  seemed  to  be  very 
near  about  this  little  child.  The  words,  "  in  heaven  their 
angels  do  always  behold  the  face  of  my  Father  which  is 
in  heaven,"  were  always  coming  into  Hannah's  mind ;  and 
the  awful  punishment  of  those  who  sin  against  "  one  of 
these  little  ones,"  seemed  to  be  only  natural  and  just. 

"  You  seem  very  fond  of  that  baby,"  said  Mr.  Rivers, 
one  day,  when  she  had  tried  to  make  it  an  attractive  draw- 
ing-room guest  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"Fond  of" — what  an  idle,  unmeaning  word!    Why, 


HANNAH.  55 

Rosie  was  a  treasure  that  one  of  God's  angels  had  dropped 
into  her  arms  straight  from  the  Father's  house,  and  bade 
her  cherish  it  and  make  it  into  an  immortal  soul,  fit  for 
His  kingdom  on  earth,  which  is  one  with  His  kingdom  in 
heaven.  This  was  how  Hannah  felt  when  she  w^atched  the 
child.  But  she  said  nothing.  How  could  Mr.  Rivers,  or 
any  man,  understand  ?  Who  could  put  into  any  father's 
face  the  mother-look  of  the  Virgin  Mary? 

As  she  stood  there,  with  Rosie  leaning  across  her  shoul- 
der, and  patting  auntie's  cheek  with  that  little  dimpled 
hand,  Mr.  Rivers,  who  had  traveled  half  over  Europe,  and 
knew  every  Madonna  by  heart,  called  her  to  look  at  her- 
self, for  she  and  the  child  were  just  the  picture  of  a  cer- 
tain Holy  Family  he  named. 

The  color  came  painfully  into  Hannah's  cheek.  She, 
too,  like  Mary,  could  have  sung  her  Magnificat ;  all  to  her- 
self— her  quiet,  lonely  self.  What  had  she  done  that 
Heaven  should  send  her  this  blessing — she,  a  solitary 
woman  of  thirty  years  old?  As  she  carried  away  little 
Rosie — who  was  quite  too  much  for  papa,  except  in  the 
character  of  a  Raffaelesque  hamhino^  and  for  about  the 
space  of  ten  minutes — she  clasped  the  child  passionately 
to  her  heart.  It  had  never  beat  so  w^armly,  so  hopefully, 
since  her  Arthur  died. 

This  w^as  on  a  Sunday  morning,  the  first  sunshiny  Sun- 
day since  her  arrival;  and  as  Miss  Thelluson  and  her 
brother-in-law  walked  together  through  the  bright-looking 
village,  all  the  neighbors  turned  out  in  their  best  clothes 
to  go  to  church  and  criticise  the  stranger.  Easterham 
was  a  sufficiently  small  place  for  every  body  to  know  ev- 
ery body ;  and  Hannah  was  fully  aware  she  was  running 
the  gauntlet  of  innumerable  eyes — "  upper-class  "  eyes : 
among  the  poor  she  was  already  well  known.  But  this 
was  the  first  time  she  had  taken  her  public  place  in  the 
parish — the  first  time,  for  many  a  long  year,  that  she  had 
walked  to  church  arm  in  arm  (country  fashion,  he  offered 
his,  and  she  accepted  it)  with  a  man,  and  a  man  that  belonged 
to  her.     It  felt — not  exactly  uncomfortable,  but — strange. 


66  HANNAH. 

Her  brother-in-law,  however,  seemed  quite  at  ease,  and 
every  person  who  came  up  to  speak  to  him  he  carefully 
introduced  to  "My  sister — Miss  Thelluson."  Sometimes 
it  was  "  sister-in-law,"  but  always  pointedly  "  sister." 

"  He  is  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  me — no  more  than 
he  was  of  his  wife,"  thought  she,  with  a  certain  comfort. 
For  if  she  had  been  much  given  to  mind  outside  things  it 
might  have  struck  her  that  this  handsome  young  man, 
with  his  Norman  ancestry,  his  easy  fortune,  and  his  posi- 
tion as  heir-presumptive  to  one  of  the  first  families  in  the 
county,  was  a  strong  contrast  to  a  quiet,  rather  old-fash- 
ioned governess — even  though  she  was  his  wife's  sister. 
But  if  she  had  also  been  a  duchess  he  could  not  have 
shown  her  more  tender  politeness ;  and  Hannah  was  grate- 
ful.    . 

It  was  only  when  he  looked  toward  the  wicket-gate 
which  divided  the  church  from  the  Moat  House,  of  which 
it  seemed  originally  to  have  been  a  mere  appurtenance, 
that  his  countenance  fell. 

"  I  see  my  people  coming.  We  must  stop  and  speak  to 
them.  It  will  be  best,  as  you  sit  in  the  same  pew,  and  as 
— as  we  may  have  to  go  to  lunch.  They  generally  expect 
me  on  Sundays." 

"  But  not  me — oh,  I  hope  not.  I  want  to  be  at  home  to 
give  Rosie  her  dinner."  And  Hannah,  with  a  nervousness 
for  which  she  despised  herself,  shrank  back  from  the  fash- 
ionable elderly  lady  and  her  four  fashionable  daughters, 
who  seemed  to  fill  up  the  whole  of  the  yew  avenue,  quite 
shutting  out  little  old  Sir  Austin,  who  came  tottering  after 
on  his  gold-headed  stick. 

"  Never  mind  Rosie,  for  once.  If  they  ask  you,  do  not 
refuse,  pray,"  whispered  Mr.  Rivers.  He  seemed  either 
excessively  fond  of,  or  painfully  subservient  to,  his  family 
— a  family  which  appeared  to  Hannah  very  much  like 
most  other  county  families — well-looking,  well-bred,  well- 
educated,  and  exceedingly  well-dressed.  Among  the  odd 
fancies  that  flitted  across  her  mind — she  had  had  a  keen 
sense  of  humor,  and  even  a  slight  turn  for  satire,  in  her 


HANNAH.  57 

youth — was  the  comical  suggestion,  What  would  they  be 
without  their  clothes  ? — that  is,  how  would  they  look  or 
feel  if  dressed  like  work-house  women,  or  laborers'  wives, 
or,  still  worse,  in  the  red  chemise  of  Charlotte  Corday,  or 
the  white  sheet  of  Jane  Shore  ?  They  looked  so  very 
proper — those  five  ladies,  sweeping  one  after  the  other 
down  the  church  aisle,  and  kneeling,  not  a  fold  awry  in 
their  draperies,  round  their  respectable  square  pew — that 
to  imagine  them  placed  in  tragical  or  anywise  exceptional 
circumstances,  where  the  trappings  of  worldly  formality 
had  dropped  off  them,  and  they  had  to  feel  and  act  like 
common  creatures  of  flesh  and  blood,  seemed  a  thing  im- 
possible. 

Foolish  thoughts  these  were,  perhaps ;  but  they  were 
partly  owing  to  her  brother-in-law's  sermon,  which  was 
exceedingly  commonplace.  He  had  said  himself,  over- 
night, that  he  felt  not  the  slightest  interest  in  his  sermons, 
and  only  did  them  mechanically,  not  believing  them  at  all. 
It  looked  like  it ;  and  as  Miss  Thelluson  listened — or  rath- 
er tried  hard  not  to,  for  listening  irritated  her  so — she 
wished  that,  instead  of  being  in  church,  she  were  sitting  on 
the  sunny  lawn  beside  that  little  white  daisy  with  a  pink 
hood,  which,  as  she  kissed  it  before  leaving,  had  looked  up 
to  her  with  eyes  in  which  were  written  the  best  sermons 
in  the  world — eyes  that  seemed  as  if  only  an  hour  ago 
they  had  seen  the  angels. 

As  Hannah  thought  of  them  she  forgot  Lady  Rivers, 
with  her  withered,  but  still  red — ah !  far  too  red — cheeks, 
and  the  Misses  Rivers,  with  their  fashionable  clothes. 
What  were  they  to  her  ?  Had  she  not  her  baby — her  lit- 
tle Rose  of  June  ?  The  dainty,  soft,  round,  innocent  thing ! 
how  sweet  she  must  be  looking  now  in  her  midday  sleep 
at  home  !  It  was  the  first  time  that,  even  in  thought.  Miss 
Thelluson  had  called  her  brother-in-law's  house  "  home." 
She  did  so  now,  for  her  baby  was  there. 

Her  baby,  and  no  one  else's ;  for  no  one  seemed  to  take 
the  smallest  interest  in  it.  After  service  the  procession  of 
five  silk  gowns,  with  women  inside  them,  sailed  slowly 

C2 


58  HANNAH. 

back  down  the  yew  avenue,  and  through  the  garden  to  the 
beautiful  old  Moat  House ;  but  nobody  asked  after  baby. 
Neither  grandmamma  nor  aunt  seemed  to  remember  there 
was  such  a  creature  in  the  world.  Hannah  hugged  her- 
self half  indignantly,  half  exultingly,  in  the  fact.  Her 
baby  was  all  her  own. 

The  Rivers  family  were  perfectly  polite  to  her.  The  in- 
vitation to  lunch  w^as  given,  and — chiefly  because  of  the 
anxiety  she  saw  in  her  brother-in-law's  eyes — accepted ;  so 
they  sat  down  all  together  in  the  grand  old  dining-room, 
with  generations  of  defunct  Riverses  watching  them  from 
the  walls.  The  conversation  was  quite  general,  and  rather 
insipid ;  indeed,  Hannah  could  not  help  thinking  how  very 
dull  was  the  company  of  grown-up  people  after  that  of  her 
baby.  Her  baby !  whose  dumb  intelligence  was  such  an 
infinite  mystery,  such  an  endless  interest.  She  longed  to 
be  back  at  home  with  Rosie;  nevertheless  she  did  her 
best,  for  Mr.  Rivers's  sake,  to  be  pleasant ;  and  when — he 
having  a  christening  and  a  funeral,  though  there  was  no 
second  service — he  asked  her  to  wait  for  him,  that  they 
might  walk  home  together,  she  sat  down  again  to  endure 
another  hour  of  the  foolish  heart-ache  which  mothers  un- 
derstand when  th'ey  are  kept  away  for  a  good  many  hours 
from  the  helpless  creature  that  depends  on  them  so  en- 
tirely. 

The  bright  day  had  settled  into  autumnal  rain,  so  the 
family  party  gathered  round  the  fire — doing  nothing,  of 
course,  as  it  was  Sunday.  Sir  Austin  openly  fell  asleep ; 
Lady  Rivers  took  up  a  huge  Bible  and  "  meditated" — nod- 
ding a  good  deal  at  intervals ;  the  girls  began  sotto  voce 
that  desultory  gossiping  which  is  supposed  to  be  so  much 
more  Sabbatical  than  books  or  work.  They  were  all  pret- 
ty girls — nay,  rather  pleasant  girls,  these  four  paternal 
aunts  of  little  Rosie ;  and  her  maternal  aunt  tried  hard  to 
get  acquainted  with  them,  and  find  out  what  was  really  in 
them.  But,  of  late  years,  Hannah's  life  had  been  so  much 
spent  with  children,  and  so  little  with  young  ladies,  that 
^Jie  foun(}  herself  completely  at  sea,  and  watching  these 


HANNAH.  69 

Specimens  of  modern  womanhood  with  the  grave,  perplexed 
criticism  of  an  elder  generation. 

"  Will  my  Rosie  grow  up  thus  ?"  she  thought  to  herself. 
"Will  she  talk  about  'jolly,'  and  'green,'  and  'the  mater- 
nal parent,'  and  'the  governor?'  Will  there  come  into 
her  little  innocent  head  such  very  odd  ideas  about  love 
and  marriage?"  (One  of  the  girls  was  engaged,  and 
the  others  evidently  hoped  to  be  ere  long.)  "Is  she 
to  grow  up  a  little  Miss  Rivers,  after  the  pattern  of 
these  ?" 

Not  if  auntie  can  help  it,  answered  auntie's  quiet,  strong 
heart,  as  the  awfulness  of  her  self-imposed  duty,  extending 
far  into  future  years,  came  upon  her  with  double  force.  A 
boy  would  haye  belonged  to  his  father,  and  been  made 
naturally  and  wholly  a  Rivers ;  but  a  girl — this  little  un- 
welcome girl — was  hers  and  Rosa's.  Might  baby  not  grow 
up  to  be  the  foundress  of  a  new  family,  the  mother  of  many 
sons  ?  This  childish  old  maid,  whose  race  was  done,  built 
up  no  end  of  castles  in  the  air  for  her  niece  Rosie.  In 
which,  I  am  afraid — and  yet  in  time  to  come  Miss  Thellu- 
son  was  not  sorry,  but  glad  of  this — Rosie's  father  had  not 
the  slightest  share. 

She  fell  into  such  a  dream  about  the  child — even  in  the 
midst  of  the  young  ladies'  chatter — that  she  quite  started 
when  Lady  Rivers,  suddenly  waking  up,  and  most  anxious 
to  appear  as  if  she  had  never  been  sleeping,  put  a  sudden 
question. 

"  By-the-by,  Miss  Thelluson,  I  hear  you  have  discharged 
Anne  Savage,  and  taken  a  new  nursery-maid  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Savage  gave  me  warning  herself;  but  I  was  not 
sorry,  as  I  prefer  a  younger  woman,"  said  Hannah,  quietly. 

"  That,  pardon  me,  is  a  mistake.  I  always  made  a  point 
that  my  head  nurse  should  be  over  forty." 

"  But  you  had  a  nursery  full  of  children ;  I  have  only 
Rosie." 

"  Oh,  by-the-by,  how  is  Rosie  ?"  cried  one  of  the  girls. 
But  as  she  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  Hannah  never 
gave  it. 


60  HANNAH. 

'^And  who  is  your  new  nurse?"  said  grandmamma,  in  a 
rather  severe,  grandmotherly  tone. 

"  Grace  Dixon,  sister,  I  believe,  to  those  Dixons  of  whom 
the  village  is  so  full.  It  was  Mrs.  John  Dixon,  the  black- 
smith's wife,  who  recommended  her  to  me.  She  said  you 
knew  the  family  well." 

"Miss  Thelluson  seems  to  have  acquainted  herself  with 
Easterham  people  as  if  she  had  lived  here  all  her  days — or 
meant  to  do  so,"  said  the  eldest  Miss  Rivers,  who  was  at 
times  a  little  sharp  of  speech.  She  was  nearly  twenty- 
eight,  and  still  Miss  Rivers,  which  she  did  not  like  at  all. 

"  ISTo ;  I  do  not  mean  to  live  at  Easterham  all  my  days," 
returned  Hannah,  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  remove  any 
false  impression  the  family  might  have  of  her  coming  to 
take  entire  possession  of  her  brother-in-law,  and  rule  ram- 
pant over  him  all  the  rest  of  his  life,  as  evidently  they 
thought  he  might  be  ruled.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  earnestly 
hope  my  stay  here  will  be  short — that  your  brother  may 
soon  find  a  good  wife,  and  need  me  no  more." 

"  So  you  approve  of  second  marriages  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hannah,  swallowing  down  a  slight  pang. 
"  Yes.  In  a  case  like  this,  most  decidedly.  I  think  the 
wisest  thing  Mr.  Rivers  could  do  would  be  to  marry  again, 
after  due  time ;  that  is,  if  he  married  the  right  woman." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  the  right  woman  ?' "  asked 
Lady  Rivers. 

"  One  who  will  make  a  good  mother  as  well  as  a  good 
wife.  In  his  first  choice  a  man  has  only  to  think  of  him- 
self; in  a  second  marriage  he  has  usually  to  consider  not 
only  himself,  but  his  children." 

"  I  don't  fancy  Bernard  will  be  in  any  haste  to  marry 
again.     He  was  very,  very  fond  of  poor  Rosa." 

It  was  Adeline,  the  youngest,  who  said  this ;  and  Han- 
nah's heart  warmed  to  her — the  first  who  had  called  her 
dead  sister  "  Rosa,"  or,  indeed,  spoken  of  her  at  all.  To 
Adeline  she  turned  for  information  about  the  Dixon  fam- 
ily, and  especially  about  the  girl  Grace,  whom  she  had 
taken  chiefly  upon  instinct,  because  she  had  a  kind,  sweet. 


HANNAH.  61 

good  face — a  sad  face  too,  as  if  she  had  known  trouble ; 
and  had,  indeed,  begged  for  the  place,  because  "her  heart 
was  breaking  for  want  of  a  child  to  look  after." 

"  What  an  odd  thing  to  say !  Well,  my  heart  wouldn't 
break  for  that,  at  any  rate,"  laughed  Adeline.  "  But  really 
I  can  tell  you  nothing  about  the  poor  people  of  Easterham. 
We  have  no  time  to  go  about  as  your  sister  did.  Bernard 
ought  to  know.     Here  he  comes." 

Hannah  looked  up,  almost  glad  to  see  Mr.  E-ivers  return. 
His  society  was  not  lively,  but  it  was  less  dull  than  that 
of  his  sisters.  Just  to  keep  conversation  going — for  it  had 
reached  a  very  low  ebb — she  explained  to  him  the  mat- 
ter under  discussion ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all 
about  it. 

"  If  you  remember,  I  brought  the  girl  into  your  study, 
and  you  liked  her  appearance,  and  said  I  might  engage  her 
at  once." 

"  Did  I  ?  Then,  of  course,  it  is  all  right.  Why  talk  it 
over  any  more  ?  I  assure  you,  girls,  one  of  Miss  Thellu- 
son's  great  merits  is  that  she  does  not  talk  things  over. 
As  I  always  tell  her,  she  can  act  for  herself,  and  never 
need  consult  me  on  any  thing." 

"  But  you  ought  to  be  consulted,"  broke  in  Lady  Riv- 
ers, "  and  in  this  matter  especially.  My  dear  Bernard,  are 
you  aware  that  in  your  position  you  ought  to  be  very  cau- 
tious ?  Miss  Thelluson,  a  stranger,  is,  of  course,  ignorant 
of  certain  facts,  otherwise  Grace  Dixon  is  the  very  last 
person  she  ought  to  bring  into  your  household." 

"  Why  so  ?  The  Dixons  are  an  excellent  family — have 
lived  at  Easterham  Farm  half  as  long  as  the  Riverses  have 
lived  at  the  Moat  House." 

"It  is  the  more  pity,"  said  Lady  Rivers,  drawing  her- 
self up.  "  My  dear  Bernard,  you  have  surely  forgotten ; 
and  the  subject  is  a  little  awkward  to  speak  of  before 
Miss  Thelluson  and  the  girls." 

Hannah  sat  silent,  expecting  one  of  those  sad  stories 
only  too  common  in  all  villages.  And  yet  Grace  Dixon 
looked  so  sad — so  innocent — and  her  kindly  and  very  re- 


62  HANNAH. 

spectable  sisters  had  not  seemed  in  the  least  ashamed  of 
her. 

"I  can  not  guess  what  you  mean,  Lady  Rivers,"  said 
Bernard,  irritably.  "  I  know  nothing  against  the  Dixons. 
The  daughters  were  all  well  conducted,  and  the  sons — " 

"It  was  one  of  the  sons.  But  perhaps  I  had  better  not 
mention  it?" 

The  good  lady  had  a  habit  of  "  not  mentioning  "  facts, 
which,  nevertheless,  she  allowed  to  leak  out  patently 
enough ;  and  another  habit  of  saying,  in  the  sweetest  way, 
the  most  unpleasant  things.  Her  step-son  had  winced  un- 
der them  more  than  once  to-day,  as  Hannah  noticed  he  did 
now.     Still  he  replied,  with  perfect  politeness : 

"  I  think  you  had  better  mention  it.  It  can  not  be  any 
thing  very  bad,  or  I  should  have  remembered  it.  Though 
I  do  forget  things  often — often,"  he  added,  relapsing  into 
his  usual  dreary  manner. 

"If  you  will  rouse  yourself  you  surely  will  remember 
this,  and  the  discussion  there  was  about  it  one  evening 
here — a  discussion  in  which  your  wife  took  part  and  gave 
her  opinion,  though  it  was  an  opinion  contrary  to  your 
own  and  mine." 

Bernard's  countenance  changed,  as  it  did  at  the  slightest 
mention  of  his  lost  darling.  "Yes;  I  recall  the  matter 
now,"  he  said,  and  stopped  suddenly. 

But  Lady  Rivers  went  on  triumphant.  "The  scandal, 
Miss  Thelluson — though  I  must  apologize  for  referring  to 
it  before  you — was  just  this;  one  of  the  brothers  Dixon 
lost  his  wife,  and  six  months  after  wanted  to  marry  her 
sister,  who  had  been  keeping  his  house.  He  actually 
came  to  Mr.  Rivers,  as  her  clergyman,  and  asked  him  to 
marry  them.  A  marriage,  you  understand,  within  the  for- 
bidden degrees — ^between  a  man  and  his  deceased  wife's 
sister." 

She  looked  hard  at  Hannah,  as  if  expecting  her  to  be 
confused;  but  she  was  not — no  more  than  when  Lady 
Dunsmore  had  referred,  though  in  a  much  more  direct 
way,  to  the  same  subject.      It  was  one  so  entirely  re- 


HANNAH.  63 

moved  from  herself  and  her  own  personality  that  she  felt 
no  more  affected  by  it  than  she  should  have  been  if,  in 
Lord  Dunsmore's  drawing-room,  she  had  heard  some  one 
telling  a  story  of  how  a  father  eloped  with  his  children's 
governess.  Of  course  such  things  were,  but  they  did  not 
concern  her  in  the  least. 

Her  entire  innocence  and  composure  seemed  to  shame 
even  Lady  Rivers ;  to  Mr.  Rivers,  though  at  first  he  had 
colored  sensitively,  they  gave  self-possession  at  once. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  remember  the  whole  story  now. 
Dixon  did  come  and  ask  me  to  marry  him  to  his  sister-in- 
law,  which,  of  course,  I  refused,  as  it  was  against  both  the 
canon  law  and  the  law  of  the  land." 

"  And  the  law  of  God  also,"  said  Lady  Rivers,  sharply. 

"  That  I  did  not  argue ;  it  was  no  business  of  mine.  I 
w^as  rather  sorry  for  the  man — he  seemed  to  have  no  ill  in- 
tent; but  the  marriage  was  impossible.  However,  this 
does  not  concern  the  rest  of  the  Dixon  family  or  the  new 
nurse-maid.     What  about  her?" 

But  as  often  as  he  tried  to  slide  away  from  the  unpleas- 
ant topic  his  step-mother  pertinaciously  slid  back  again. 

"  Excuse  me ;  I  think  it  does  concern  the  rest  of  the 
family.  No  one  can  touch  pitch  without  being  defiled, 
and  a  scandal  like  this  affects  every  one  connected  with  it. 
How  did  it  end,  Bernard  ?" 

"I  can  not  tell.  Probably  Dixon  went  to  some  other 
and  less  scrupulous  clergyman,  or  some  distant  parish, 
w^here  they  could  put  up  bans  and  be  married  without  be- 
ing known ;  or,  probably,  he  went  back  and  they  lived  to- 
gether without  being  married  at  all.  Such  cases  happen 
continually.  But  why  speak  of  them  ?  Is  it  necessary  to 
speak  of  unpleasant  things  ?" 

Yet  the  way  he  himself  spoke  of  them,  with  a  mixture 
of  directness  and  grave  simplicity,  as  only  a  pure-hearted 
man  ever  does  speak,  struck  Hannah  much.  Also  his 
quiet  Avay  of  getting  over  an  extremely  awkward  posi- 
tion, which  to  avoid  would  have  been  more  awkward  still. 
But  Lady  Rivers  would  not  let  him  alone. 


64  HANNAH. 

"And  I  suppose  you  think  now,  as  I  remember  Mrs. 
Bernard  did  at  the  time,  that  you  were  wrong  in  refusing 
to  marry  the  man  ?" 

"No;  I  was  right.  I  have  been  similarly  applied  to 
many  times  since,  for  the  poor  have  strangely  confused 
notions  on  this  point,  and  I  have  always  refused.  The 
law  makes  these  people  brothers  and  sisters;  therefore 
they  can  not  possibly  be  married.  But,  my  dear  Lady 
Rivers,  let  us  leave  a  topic  which  really  does  not  concern 
us.  The  matter  of  moment  now.  Aunt  Hannah,"  turning 
toward  her  with  the  smile  of  a  worried  man  who  knows 
that  there,  at  least,  he  shall  find  rest,  "  is,  that  you  and  I 
must  leave  this  warm  fireside  and  walk  home  through  the 
wet  together;  unless,  indeed,  we  make  up  our  minds  to 
swim." 

The  perfect  freedom,  and  yet  friendly  respect  of  his 
manner,  healed  over  all  the  discourtesies  which  Lady  Riv- 
ers had  so  remorselessly  inflicted.  Miss  Thelluson  rose, 
thankfully  enough,  and  they  two  started  off  in  the  pelting 
rain,  for  nobody  ever  thought  of  ordering  the  Moat  House 
carriage  on  a  Sunday.  Besides,  Hannah  never  minded 
weather,  and  the  storm  seemed  almost  to  do  her  brother- 
in-law  good.  Like  all  really  manly  men,  he  was  roused 
and  cheered  by  the  necessity  of  fighting  against  some- 
thing; perhaps,  also,  of  protecting  something.  He  wrap- 
ped his  sister-in-law  well  up,  and  sustained  her  steps  care- 
fully against  the  wild  equinoctial  blast,  which  was  almost 
like  pressing  against  a  stone  wall. 

After  they  quitted  the  Moat  House  Mr.  Rivers  never 
referred  to  the  matter  which  had  been  so  obstinately  and 
unpleasantly  discussed  in  their  presencie.  He  seemed  at 
once  to  accept  it  and  ignore  it,  as  those  should  whom  fate 
has  placed  in  any  anomalous  or  difficult  position  that  lays 
them  open  to  many  annoyances,  which  must,  nevertheless, 
be  borne,  and  are  best  borne  with  complete  indifference. 
Hannah  took  her  lesson  from  him — not  without  a  cer- 
tain respect,  deeper  than  she  had  yet  felt— and  did  the 
same. 


HANNAEU  65 

They  parted  in  the  hall,  he  to  go  into  his  study,  she  to 
run  eagerly  up  stairs,  drawn  thither  by  the  little  merry 
voice  which  was  heard  through  the  nursery  door  chattering 
its  utterly  unintelligible  English.  Hannah's  face  brio-ht- 
ened  into  something  almost  like  beauty  at  the  sound.  Ilo- 
sie's  father  stopped  to  say, 

"  You  are  getting  very  fond  of  my  child." 

"  It  would  be  strange  if  I  were  not.  Is  she  not  my  niece 
— my  own  flesh  and  blood  ?  And,  besides,  I  don't  think 
there  ever  was  such  a  child  !"  cried  foolish  Aunt  Hannah. 
"Just  look  there!" 

The  little  round  rosy  face  —  it  was  rosy  now,  having 
grown  so  already  in  the  pleasant  new  nursery,  and  un- 
der incessant  loving  care — was  looking  through  the  bal- 
usters, making  a  vain  effort  to  say,  "  Peep !"  at  least  so 
Rosie's  imaginative  female  worshipers  declared  it  to  be. 
Behind  appeared  Grace  Dixon's  pale,  kind,  sweet  looks, 
moved  almost  into  cheerfulness  by  the  brightness  of 
baby's.  A  pretty  sight ;  and  for  the  first  time  it  seemed 
to  bring  a  ray  of  sunshine  into  the  widower's  household. 
He  sighed,  but  his  sigh  was  less  forlorn. 

"  How  happy  the  child  looks  !  Poor  Rosie,  she  is  not 
in  the  least  like  her  mother — except  in  that  sunshiny  na- 
ture of  hers.     I  hope  she  may  keep  it  always." 

"  I  hope  so  too,  and  I  believe  she  will.  I  did  not  think 
her  pretty  at  first;  but  never  —  never  was  there  such  a 
touching  child." 

"  It  is  your  doing,  then." 

"And  Grace's,  too.  She  has  been  quite  different  even 
these  few  days  since  Grace  had  her.  I  hope  " — and  here 
Hannah  could  not  help  coloring  a  little — "  I  hope  you  will 
not  require  me  to  send  away  Grace  ?" 

"  No."  Mr.  Rivers  paused  a  minute,  and  then  said, 
gravely :  "  I  am  sorry  that  any  thing  should  have  vexed 
you  to-day.  Do  not  mind  grandmamma;  she  speaks 
thoughtlessly  sometimes,  but  she  means  no  harm.  She 
likes  interfering  now  and  then  ;  but  you  can  bear  that, 
I  know.     Remember,  I  will  always  uphold  you  in  matters 


66  HANNAH. 

concerning  Rosie  or  the  household,  or  any  thing  else  that 
you  think  right." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Hannah,  warmly.  She  shook  cor- 
dially the  hand  he  gave,  and  ran  up  stairs  to  "  auntie's  dar- 
ling "  with  a  light  heart. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


It  is  a  mistake  to  take  for  granted,  as  in  books  and  life 
we  perpetually  do,  that  people  must  always  remain  the 
same.  On  the  contrary,  most  people  are  constantly  chang- 
ing— growing,  let  us  hope,  but  still  changing — in  charac- 
ter, feelings,  opinions.  If  we  took  this  into  account  we 
should  often  be  less  harsh  to  judge ;  less  piteously  mis- 
judged ourselves.  For  instance,  we  resolve  always  to  love 
our  friend  and  hate  our  enemy  ;  but  our  friend  may  prove 
false,  and  our  enemy  kind  and  good.  What  are  we  then 
to  do  ?  To  go  on  loving  and  hating  as  before  ?  I  fear  w^e 
can  not.  We  must  accept  things  as  they  stand,  and  act 
accordingly.  Or  —  and  this  is  a  common  case — we  may 
ourselves  once  have  had  certain  faults,  which  we  after- 
ward had  sense  to  see  and  correct ;  yet  those  who  knew 
us  in  our  faulty  days  will  never  believe  this,  and  go  on  con- 
demning us  forever  —  which  is  a  little  hard.  And  again, 
we  may  have  started  honestly  on  a  certain  course,  and 
declared  openly  certain  opinions  or  intentions,  which  we 
afterward  see  cause  to  modify,  or  even  to  renounce  entire- 
ly. Time  and  circumstance  have  so  altered  us  that  we  are 
obliged  to  give  our  old  selves  the  lie  direct,  or  else  to  be 
untrue  to  our  present  selves.  In  short,  we  must  just  re- 
tract, in  act  or  word,  boldly  or  weakly,  nobly  or  ignobly, 
as  our  natures  allow.  And  though  we  have  been  perfectly 
sincere  throughout,  the  chances  are  that  no  one  will  be- 
lieve us  ;  we  shall  be  stamped  as  hypocrites,  renegades,  or 
deep  designing  schemers  to  the  end  of  our  days.  This,  too, 
is  hard ;  and  it  takes  a  strong  heart  and  a  clear  conscience 
to  bear  it. 


HANNAH.  C7 

When  Hannah  Thelluson  consented  to  come  to  her 
brother-in-law's  house,  and  he  thankfully  opened  to  her 
his  dreary  doors,  they  were  two  most  sorrowful  people, 
who  yet  meant  to  make  the  best  of  their  sorrow,  and  of 
one  another,  so  as  to  be  a  mutual  comfort,  if  possible.  At 
least  this  was  her  intent ;  he  probably  had  no  intent  at  all 
beyond  the  mere  relief  of  the  moment.  Men — and  young 
men — seldom  look  ahead  as  women  do. 

Now  two  people  living  under  the  same  roof,  and  greatly 
dependent  upon  one  another,  seldom  remain  long  in  a  state 
of  indifference  ;  they  take  either  to  loving  or  hating  ;  and 
these  two,  being  both  of  them  good  people,  though  so 
very  different  in  character,  were  not  likely  to  do  the  lat- 
ter. Besides,  they  stood  in  that  relation  which  of  all  oth- 
ers most  attracts  regard — of  reciprocally  doing  good  and 
being  done  good  to.  They  shared  one  another's  burdens, 
and  gave  one  another  help.  Consequently  the  burdens 
lightened,  and  the  help  increased,  every  day  that  they  re- 
sided together. 

Their  life  was  very  equable,  quiet,  and,  at  first,  rather 
dull.  Of  course  the  widower  did  not  visit,  or  receive  vis- 
itors. Occasional  family  dinners  at  the  Moat  House,  and 
a  few  morning  calls  received  and  paid,  were  all  that  Han- 
nah saw  of  Easterham  society.  She  had  the  large  handsome 
house  entirely  to  herself  often  from  morning  to  night ;  for 
gradually  Mr.  Rivers  went  back  to  his  parish  duties,  which 
he  once  used  most  creditably  to  fulfill.  Consequently,  in- 
stead of  hanging  about  the  house  all  day,  he  was  frequent- 
ly absent  till  dinner-time.  This  was  a  great  source  of  sat- 
isfaction to  Miss  Thelluson  ;  at  first — let  the  honest  truth 
be  told — because  she  was  heartily  glad  to  get  rid  of  him ; 
by-and-by  from  sincere  pleasure  at  the  good  it  did  him. 

"Work  always  comforts  a  man,"  she  said  to  herself, 
w^hen  she  saw  him  come  in,  fresh  from  battling  with  rain 
and  wind,  or  eager  to  secure  her  help  and  sympathy  in 
some  case  of  distress  in  the  parish,  his  handsome  face  look- 
ing ten  years  younger,  and  his  listless  manner  gaining  en- 
ergy and  decision. 


68  HANNAH. 

"  You  were  right,  Aunt  Hannah,"  he  would  often  say, 
with  an  earnest  thoughtfulness  that  was  yet  not  exactly 
sadness.  "To  preach  to  sufferers  one  needs  to  have  suf- 
fered one's  self.  I  shall  be  a  better  parson  now  than  I 
used  to  be,  I  hope — on  week-days,  certainly,  and  perhaps 
even  on  Sundays,  if  you  will  continue  to  look  over  my  ser- 
mons." 

Which,  people  began  to  say,  were  much  better  than 
they  used  to  be,  and  Hannah  herself  thought  so  too.  She 
always  read  them,  and,  after  a  while,  criticised  them,  pretty 
sharply  and  fearlessly,  every  Saturday  night.  On  other 
nights  she  got  her  brother-in-law  into  the  habit  of  reading 
aloud ;  first,  because  it  was  much  the  easiest  way  of  pass- 
ing the  evening — and  after  being  out  all  day,  he  absolute- 
ly refused  to  go  out  again,  lessening  even  his  visits  to  the 
Moat  House  whenever  he  could — secondly,  because  soon 
she  came  to  like  it  very  much.  It  was  like  falling  into  a 
dream  of  peace  to  sit  sewing  at  Rosie's  little  clothes  (for 
Aunt  Hannah  did  all  she  could  for  her  darling  with  her 
own  hands),  silent — she  always  loved  silence — yet  listen- 
ing to  Mr.  Rivers's  pleasant  voice,  and  thinking  over, 
quietly  to  herself,  what  he  was  reading.  In  this  way,  dur- 
ing the  first  three  months,  they  got  through  a  quantity 
of  books,  both  of  prose  and  poetry,  and  had  grown  familiar 
enough  now  and  then  to  lay  the  books  down,  and  take  to 
arguments — quarreling  fiercely  at  times — until  either  be- 
came accustomed  to  the  other's  way  of  thinking,  and 
avoided  warlike  topics,  or  fought  so  honorably  and  well 
that  the  battles  ended  in  mutual  respect,  and  very  often 
in  a  fit  of  mutual  laughter. 

It  may  be  a  dreadful  thing  to  confess,  but  they  did 
laugh  sometimes.  Ay,  even  with  the  moonlight  sleeping, 
or  the  white  snow  falling,  on  Rosa's  grave  a  mile  off — 
Rosa,  who  was  with  the  angels,  smiling  in  the  eternal  smile 
of  God.  These  others,  left  behind  to  do  their  mortal  work, 
were  not  always  miserable.  Rosie  began  the  change,  by 
growing  every  day  more  charming,  more  interesting,  more 
curious,  in  her  funny  little  ways,  every  one  of  which  aunt 


HANNAH.  69 

retailed  to  papa  when  he  came  home,  as  if  there  had  never 
been  such  a  wonderful  baby  in  any  house  before. 

A  baby  in  the  house.  Does  any  body  know  fully  what 
that  is  till  he — no^  say  she — has  tried  it  ? 

Hannah  did  not.  Fond  as  she  was  of  children,  and  well 
accustomed  to  them,  they  were  all  other  people's  children. 
This  one  was  her  own.  On  her  alone  depended  the  little 
human  soul  and  human  body  for  every  thing  in  life — ev- 
ery thing  that  could  make  it  grow  up  to  itself  and  the 
world  a  blessing  or  a  curse.  A  solemn  way  of  viewing 
things,  perhaps ;  but  Hannah  was  a  solemn-minded  wom- 
an. She  erred,  anyhow,  on  the  right  side.  This  was  the 
"  duty  "  half  of  her  new  existence ;  the  other  half  was  joy 
— wholly  joy. 

A  child  in  the  house.  Say,  rather,  an  angel ;  for  I  think 
Heaven  leaves  a  touch  of  the  angel  in  all  little  children, 
to  reward  those  about  them  for  their  inevitable  cares. 
Rosie  was,  to  other  people  besides  her  aunt,  a  very  re- 
markable child  —  wonderfully  sweet,  and  yet  brave  even 
as  a  baby.  She  never  cried  for  pain  or  fretfulness,  though 
she  sometimes  did  for  passion  ;  and  for  sorrow — a  strange, 
contrite,  grown-up  kind  of  sorrow — whenever  she  did  any 
thing  the  least  wrong,  which  was  very  seldom.  She  was 
usually  a  perfect  sunbeam  of  brightness,  wholesomeness, 
and  content.  Her  delicacy  and  fragility,  which  were 
only  that  of  a  flower  reared  up  in  darkness,  and  recover- 
ing its  healthy  colors  as  soon  as  ever  it  is  brought  into 
the  sun,  soon  became  among  the  things  that  had  been. 
Not  a  child  in  all  Easterham  seemed  more  likely  to  thrive 
than  Rosie  Rivers ;  and  every  body,  even  at  the  Moat 
House,  now  acknowledged  this,  to  Miss  Thelluson's  great 
glory  and  delight.  Grace's  also — unto  whom  much  credit 
was  owing. 

Hannah  had  taken  her  rather  rashly  perhaps — wise  peo- 
ple sometimes  do,  upon  instinct,  rather  rash  things.  She 
thought  so  herself  when  one  day,  accidentally  asking  Grace 
some  apparently  trivial  question,  the  girl  burst  into  tears, 
confessed  that  she  was  a  married  Avoman,  and  licr  lius- 


10  HANNAH. 

band  had  run  away  from  her.  "  But  I  was  married,  in- 
deed I  was,  and  his  sisters  know  it !"  Which  the  sisters, 
who  were  in  fact  sisters-in-law,  resolutely  confirmed ;  but 
no  more  facts  could  be  gained,  Nor  did  Hannah  like  to 
inquire,  having  a  feeling  that  poor  women's  miseries  were 
as  sacred  as  rich  ones'.  It  was  an  unwelcome  discovery — 
a  nurse  with  a  living  and,  probably,  scape-grace  husband 
might  prove  very  inconvenient ;  still  she  had  grown  fond 
of  the  girl,  who  was  passionately  devoted  to  Rosie. 

"  For  Rosie's  sake  I  must  keep  her,  if  possible  ;  and  for 
her  own  sake,  poor  thing,  I  can  not  bear  to  send  her  away. 
What  must  I  do  ?" 

Rosie's  father,  to  whom  she  thus  appealed — for,  despite 
what  he  had  said,  she  persistently  consulted  him  in  every 
thing  —  answered  decisively,  "Let  her  stay."  So  Grace 
staid.  But  Miss  Thelluson  insisted  that  she  should  no 
longer  pass  under  false  colors,  but  be  called  Mrs.  Dixon ; 
and  finding  she  had  no  wedding-ring — her  husband,  she 
declared,  had  torn  it  from  her  finger  the  day  he  left  her — 
Hannah  took  the  trouble  to  buy  her  a  new  one,  and  in- 
sisted upon  her  wearing  it,  saying,  "  She  hated  all  deceits 
of  every  kind."  Upon  which  Grace  looked  up  to  her  with 
such  grateful,  innocent  eyes,  that,  Quixotic  as  her  conduct 
might  appear  to  some  people — it  did  at  the  Moat  House, 
where  the  girls  laughed  at  her  immoderately — she  felt  sure 
the  story  was  true,  and  that  she  should  never  repent  hav- 
ing thus  acted. 

This  was  the  only  incident  of  the  winter ;  and  as  week 
after  week  passed  by,  and  nothing  ill  came  of  it,  no  run- 
away husband  ever  appeared,  and  poor  Grace  brightened 
into  the  tenderest  nurse,  the  most  faithful  servant,  hardly 
thinking  she  could  do  enough  for  her  mistress  and  the  child, 
Hannah  ceased  to  think  of  it,  or  of  any  thing  unpleasant, 
so  busy  and  contented  was  she. 

More  than  content — that  she  had  always  been — actually 
happy.  True,  she  had  thought  her  May-time  wholly  past; 
but  now,  as  spring  began  to  waken,  and  she  and  Rosie  be- 
gan to  gather  primroses  in  the  garden  and  daisies  in  the 


HANNAH.  71 

lanes,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  youth  had  come  back 
again.  Youth,  fresh  and  full,  added  to  all  the  experience, 
the  satisfied  enjoyment,  of  middle  age.  They  were  like 
two  babies  together,  she  and  Rosie,  all  through  this  Rosie's 
first  earthly  spring.  They  crawled  together  on  the  sunny 
grass-plot ;  they  played  bo-peep  round  the  oak-tree ;  they 
investigated  with  the  deepest  interest  every  new  green 
leaf  and  flower  and  insect ;  for  she  tried  to  make  her  child 
like  the  Child  in  the  Story  without  an  End — a  companion 
and  friend  to  all  living  things.  And  Rosie,  by  the  time 
she  was  eighteen  months  old,  with  her  sweetness,  intelli- 
gence, and  the  mysterious  way  the  baby-soul  opened  out 
to  the  wonders  and  beauty  of  this  our  world,  had  taught 
her  aunt  Hannah  quite  as  much  as  Aunt  Hannah  had 
taught  her,  and  become  even  a  greater  blessing  than  the 
blessings  she  received. 

"  It  is  all  the  child's  doing,"  Hannah  said,  laughing  and 
blushing,  one  day,  when  Mr.  Rivers  came  suddenly  in,  and 
found  her  dancing  through  the  hall  with  Rosie  in  her 
arms,  and  singing  too  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  "  She  is 
the  sunbeam  of  the  house.  Every  servant  in  it  spoils  her, 
and  serves  her  like  a  little  queen.  As  for  me,  auntie  makes 
a  goose  of  herself  every  hour  in  the  day.  Doesn't  she, 
Rosie  ?    At  her  time  of  life,  too  !" 

"  What  is  your  time  of  life  ?  for  I  really  don't  know," 
said  Mr.  Rivers,  smiling.  "Sometimes  you  look  quite 
young,  and  then,  again,  I  fancy  you  must  be  fully  as  old 
as  I  am. " 

"  Older.     Thirty-one." 

"  Well,  I  am  thirty ;  so  when  you  die  of  old  age  I  shall 
begin  to  quake.  But  tell  her  not  to  die,  Rosie."  And  a 
sad  look  came  across  his  face,  as  it  still  often  did.  Han- 
nah knew  what  it  meant.  "  Bid  her  live  and  take  care  of 
us  both.  What  in  the  wide  world  should  we  two  do 
without  Aunt  Hannah." 

And  Rosie,  with  that  chance  instinct  of  babyhood, 
often  so  touching,  patted  with  her  tiny  soft  hand  her 
aunt's    cheek,    saying,   wooingly,    "  Nice    Tannic,   pitty 


Tannie" — which  had  been  her  first  attempt  at  "Aunt 
Hannah." 

"Tannie" — the  name  clung  to  her  already,  as  baby  pet- 
names  always  do — pressed  the  little  breast  to  hers  in  a 
passion  of  delight  and  content,  knowing  that  there  was 
not  a  creature  in  the  world  —  no  woman,  certainly — to 
come  between  her  and  her  child.  Her  child !  Twenty 
mothers,  she  sometimes  thought, 

**  Could  not  with  all  their  quantity  of  love 
Make  up  the  sum  " 

of  that  she  felt  for  her  motherless  darling. 

The  father  stood  and  watched  them  both.  As  Rosie 
grew  older  and  more  winning  he  began  to  take  more  no- 
tice of  his  little  girl,  at  least  when  Aunt  Hannah  was  pres- 
ent to  mount  guard  over  her,  and  keep  her  good  and  quiet. 

"You  look  quite  a  picture,  you  two!  Hannah"  (he 
sometimes  called  her  "Hannah"  without  the  "Aunt"), 
"  you  must  be  excessively  fond  of  that  child  ?" 

She  laughed — a  low,  soft,  happy  laugh.  Her  feeling  for 
little  Rosie  w^as  a  thing  she  could  not  talk  about.  Besides, 
its  sacredness  had  a  double  root,  as  it  were ;  and  one  root 
was  in  the  dead  mother's  grave. 

"  The  little  thing  seems  very  fond  of  you  too,  as  well 
she  may  be,"  continued  Mr.  Rivers.  "  I  trust  she  may  yet 
repay  you  for  all  your  love.  I  hope — I  earnestly  hope — 
that  you  and  she  may  never  be  parted." 

A  natural  thought,  accidentally  expressed.  Hannah  said 
to  herself  over  and  over  again  that  it  must  have  been  pure- 
ly accidental,  and  meant  nothing ;  yet  it  shot  through  her 
like  a  bolt  of  ice.  Was  there  a  chance,  the  dimmest,  re- 
motest chance,  that  she  and  the  child  might  be  parted? 
Did  he,  now  that  the  twelvemonth  of  mourning  had  ex- 
pired, contemplate  marrying  again  —  as  Lady  Dunsmore 
had  foretold  he  would  ?  Indeed,  in  a  letter  lately  (for  she 
still  wrote  sometimes,  and  would  by  no  means  lose  sight 
of  her  former  governess)  the  countess  had  put  the  direct 
question,  at  which  Miss  Thclluson  had  only  smiled. 


HANNAH.  73 

Kow  she  did  not  smile.  She  felt  actually  uneasy.  She 
ran  rapidly  over,  in  her  mind,  all  the  young  ladies  he  had 
seen  or  mentioned  lately — very  few;  and  he  seemed  to 
have  no  interest  in  any.  Still  there  might  be  some  one 
whom  she  had  never  heard  of;  and  if  so,  if  he  married 
again,  would  he  require  her — of  course  he  would  ! — to  quit 
the  House  on  the  Hill,  and  leave  behind  his  little  daughter? 

"  I  could  not !  'No  !  I  will  not,"  thought  she.  And 
after  the  one  cold  shiver  came  a  hot  thrill  of  something 
more  like  fierceness  than  her  quiet  nature  had  known  for 
long.  "  To  expect  me  to  give  up  my  child.  It  would  be 
cruel,  barbarous  !"  And  then  came  a  sudden  frantic  idea 
of  snatching  up  Rosie  in  her  arms  and  running  away  with 
her,  anyhow,  anywhere,  so  as  to  hide  her  from  her  father. 
"  I  shall  do  it — I  know  I  shall — if  he  drives  me  to  it.  He 
had  better  not  try  !" 

And  hot  tears  dropped  on  the  little  white  night-gown 
which  Aunt  Hannah  was  vainly  endeavoring  to  tie.  It 
was  Sunday  night;  and  she  always  sent  Grace  to  church, 
and  put  the  child  to  bed  herself,  of  Sundays.  Bitter,  mis- 
erable tears  they  were,  too,  but  only  on  account  of  the 
child.  Nothing  more.  Afterward,  when  she  recalled  them 
and  what  had  produced  them,  this  first  uneasy  fear  which 
had  shot  across  the  calm  heaven  of  her  life — a  heavenly 
life  it  had  grown  to  be  since  she  had  the  child — Hannah 
felt  certain  that  she  could  have  looked  the  child's  angel, 
or  its  mother,  in  the  face,  and  declared  positively  they 
were  nothing  more. 

But  the  notion  of  having  to  part  from  Rosie,  under  the 
only  circumstances  in  which  that  parting  was  natural  and 
probable,  having  once  entered  her  mind,  lurked  there  un- 
easily, troubling  often  the  happy  hours  she  spent  with  her 
darling;  for  the  aunt,  wholly  engrossed  with  her  charge, 
had  her  with  her  more  than  most  mothers,  with  whom 
their  children's  father  holds  rightly  the  first  place.  "Nev- 
ertheless  Miss  Thelluson  did  her  duty  most  satisfactorily 
by  her  brother-in-law ;  whenever  papa  wanted  auntie,  lit- 
tle Rosie  was  remorselessly  sent  away,  even  though  auntie's 

D 


74  HANNAH. 

heart  followed  her  longingly  all  the  while.  But  she  had 
already  learned  her  lesson — she  never  allowed  the  child  to 
be  a  trouble  to  the  father. 

"  Not  one  man  in  a  thousand  cares  to  be  troubled  about 
any  thing,  you  may  depend  upon  that,"  she  said,  one  day, 
gayly,  to  the  second  Miss  Rivers,  who  was  now  about  to 
be  married. 

"  Who  taught  you  that  ? — ray  brother  ?  Well,  you  must 
have  had  plenty  of  experience  of  him,  faults  and  all ;  al- 
most as  much  as  his  wife  had,"  said  the  sister,  sarcastical- 
ly ;  which  made  Hannah  rather  sorry  that  she  had  unwit- 
tingly betrayed  the  results  of  her  year's  experience  at  the 
House  on  the  Hill. 

Yes;  she  knew  her  brother-in-law  pretty  well  by  this 
time — all  his  weaknesses,  all  his  virtues ;  better,  he  told 
her,  and  she  believed  it,  than  his  own  sisters  knew  him. 
He  was  so  unlike  them  in  character,  tastes,  and  feelings 
that  she  had  now  ceased  to  wonder  why  he  chose  none  of 
them  to  live  with  him  and  Rosie,  but  preferred  rather  his 
wife's  sister,  who  might  a  little  resemble  his  wife,  as  Han- 
nah sometimes  vaguely  wished  she  did. 

More  especially  when  the  approaching  marriage  forced 
him  out  of  his  retirement,  and  he  had  to  officiate  in  the  fes- 
tivities as  eldest  brother,  instead  of  poor  Austin,  whom  no- 
body ever  saw  or  spoke  of  Bernard  had  to  act  as  head 
of  the  house.  Sir  Austin  being  very  frail  now ;  and  he  ac- 
cepted his  place  and  went  through  his  duties  with  a  cheer- 
fulness that  Hannah  was  surprised  yet  glad  to  see.  If 
only  he  could  have  had  beside  him  the  bright,  beautiful 
wife  who  was  gone,  instead  of  a  grave  sister  like  herself! 
Still  she  did  her  best ;  went  out  with  him  when  he  asked 
her,  and  at  other  times  staid  quietly  at  home — half  amused, 
half  troubled,  to  find  how  she,  who  in  the  first  months  of 
winter  almost  longed  for  solitude,  now  began  to  find  it 
just  a  little  dull.  She  was  not  so  glad  of  her  own  com- 
pany as  she  used  to  be,  and  found  the  evenings,  after  Ro- 
sie's  bedtime,  rather  long.  Only  the  evenings:  of  morn- 
ings, when  Rosie  was  with  her,  she  felt  no  want  of  any  kind. 


HANNAH. 


Following  the  wedding — to  which  Miss  Thelluson  was 
of  course  asked  and,  somewhat  unwillingly,  went,  seeing 
Mr.  Rivers  wished  it — came  many  bridal  parties,  to  which 
she  was  invited,  too.  Thence  ensued  a  small  difficulty — 
ridiculous  in  itself,  and  yet  involving  much — which,  when 
her  brother-in-law  urged  her  to  accompany  him  every- 
where, she  was  at  last  obliged  to  confess. 

"  I  can't  go,"  she  said,  laughing — it  was  much  better  to 
make  it  a  jesting  than  a  serious  matter.  "  The  real  truth 
IS,  I've  got  no  clothes." 

And  then  came  out  another  truth,  which  Mr.  Rivers, 
with  his  easy  fortunes  and  masculine  indifference  to  money, 
had  never  suspected,  and  was  most  horrified  at — that,  her 
salary  as  governess  ceasing,  Aunt  Hannah  had  absolutely 
nothing  to  live  upon.  Though  dwelling  in  the  midst  of 
luxury,  and  spending  unlimited  sums  upon  housekeeping 
weekly,  the  utmost  she  had  had  to  spend  upon  herself, 
since  she  came  to  the  House  on  the  Hill,  was  an  innocent 
fifteen-pound  note  laid  by  from  last  year,  the  remains  of 
which  went  in  the  wedding  gown  of  quiet  gray  silk  which 
had  replaced  her  well-worn  black  one. 

"Dreadful!"  cried  Mr.  Rivers.  "While  you  have  been 
doing  every  thing  for  me,  I  have  left  you  like  a  pauper." 

"  Not  exactly,"  and  she  laughed  again  at  his  vehement 
contrition.  "  Indeed,  I  had  as  much  money  as  I  wanted, 
for  my  w^ants  are  small.  Remember,  I  have  been  for  so 
many  years  a  poor  governess." 

"  You  shall  never  be  poor  again,  nor  a  governess,  either. 
I  can  not  tell  you  how  much  I  owe  you — how  deeply  I  re- 
spect you.  What  can  I  say  ?  Rather,  what  can  I  do  ?" 
He  thought  a  little,  and  then  said,  "The  only  plan  is,  you 
must  let  me  do  for  you  exactly  what  I  would  have  done 
for  my  own  sister.     Listen,  while  I  explain." 

He  then  proposed  to  pay  her  a  quarterly  allowance,  or 
annuity,  large  enough  to  make  her  quite  independent  per- 
sonally. Or,  if  she  preferred  it,  to  make  over  the  principal 
in  a  deed  of  gift,  from  which  she  could  draw  the  same  sum 
as  interest  at  her  pleasure. 


76  HANNAH. 

"  And,  you  understand,  this  is  quite  between  ourselves. 
My  fortune  is  my  own,  independent  of  my  family.  No 
one  but  us  two  need  ever  be  the  wiser.  Only  say  the 
word,  and  the  matter  shall  be  settled  at  once." 

Tears  sprang  to  Hannah's  eyes. 

"  You  are  a  good,  kind  brother  to  me,"  she  said.  "  IsTor 
would  it  matter  so  very  much,  as,  if  I  did  take  the  money, 
I  should  just  make  a  will  and  leave  it  back  to  Rosie.  But 
I  can  not  take  it.  I  never  yet  was  indebted  to  any  man 
alive." 

"  It  would  not  be  indebtedness — only  justice,"  argued 
he.  "  You  are  a  practical  woman :  let  me  put  it  in  a  prac- 
tical light,  I  am  not  giving ;  only  paying,  as  I  should 
have  to  pay  some  other  lady.  Why  should  I  be  more  just 
and  liberal  to  a  stranger  than  to  you  ?  This  on  my  side. 
On  yours — what  can  you  do  ?  You  are  fed  and  housed, 
but  you  must  be  clothed.  You  are  not  a  lily  of  the  field. 
Though" — looking  at  her  as  she  stood  beside  him,  tall  and 
slender  and  pale — "  I  sometimes  think  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  the  lily  about  you,  Aunt  Hannah.  You  are  so  single- 
minded  and  pure-hearted ;  and,  like  the  lilies,  you  preach 
me  a  silent  sermon  many  a  time." 

"  Not  always  silent,"  said  she,  yet  was  pleased  at  the 
compliment.  He  had  never  made  her  a  pretty  speech  be- 
fore. Then,  too,  his  urging  her  to  remain  with  him,  on  the 
only  possible  terms  on  which  she  could  remain — those  he 
proposed  —  proved  that  he  was  not  contemplating  mar- 
riage, at  least  not  immediately. 

All  he  said  was  thoroughly  kind,  generous,  and  wise. 
Besides,  her  sound  common-sense  told  her  that  clothes  did 
not  grow  upon  bushes ;  and  that  if  she  were  to  continue 
as  mistress  of  the  House  on  the  Hill,  it  was  essential  that 
Rosie's  aunt  and  Mr.  Rivers's  sister-in-law  should  not  go 
dressed,  as  he  indignantly  put  it,  "  like  a  pauper."  She 
considered  a  little,  and  then,  putting  her  pride  in  her  pock- 
et, she  accepted  the  position  of  matters  as  inevitable. 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Rivers.  Give  me  the  same  salary  that 
I  received  from  Earl  Dunsmore,  and  I  will  take  it  from  you 


HANNAH.  77 

as  I  did  from  him.  It  will  cover  all  my  personal  needs, 
and  even  allow  me,  as  heretofore,  to  put  by  a  little  for  my 
old  age." 

"  Your  old  age  ?  Where  should  that  be  spent  but  here, 
in  my  house  ?" 

"  Your  house  may  not  always  be — "  She  stopped ;  she 
had  not  the  heart  to  put  into  plain  words  the  plain  fact 
that  he  might  marry  again — few  men  were  more  likely  to 
do  so.     But  he  seemed  to  understand  it. 

"  Oh,  Hannah  !"  he  said,  and  turned  away.  She  was  so 
vexed  at  herself  that  she  dropped  the  conversation  at 
once. 

Next  day  Miss  Thelluson  found  on  her  toilette-table,  in 
a  blank  envelope,  a  check  for  a  hundred  pounds. 

At  first  she  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  throw  the  money 
into  the  fire  ;  then  a  kind  of  sensation  of  gratitude. 

"  If  I  had  not  liked  him  I  couldn't  have  touched  a  half- 
penny ;  but  I  do  like  him.  So  I  must  take  it,  and  try  to 
please  him  as  much  as  I  can." 

For  that  reason,  and  to  do  him  credit  when  she  went 
out  with  him,  poor  Hannah  expended  more  money  and 
thought  over  her  clothes  than  she  had  done  for  years,  ap- 
pearing in  toilettes  so  good  and  tasteful,  though  simple 
still,  that  the  Moat  House  girls  wondered  what  in  the 
world  had  come  over  her  to  make  her  look  so  young. 

We  are  always  changing  within  and  without,  modified 
more  or  less,  as  was  said  in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter, 
by  continually  changing  circumstances.  Had  any  one  a 
year  ago  shown  Hannah  her  picture,  as  she  often  appeared 
now,  in  pretty  evening  dress — she  had  lovely  round  arms 
still,  and  it  was  Rosie's  delight  to  catch  them  bare,  and 
fondle  and  hug  them  to  her  little  bosom  as  "dollies" — 
Hannah  would  have  said  such  a  woman  was  not  herself  at 
all.  Yet  it  was;  and  hers,  too,  was  the  heart,  w^onderfuUy 
gay  and  light  sometimes,  which  she  carried  about  through 
the  day,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  with  at  night,  marveling 
what  she  had  done  that  Heaven  should  make  her  life  thus 
content  and  glad. 


78  IIAXXAII. 

The  change  was  so  gradual  that  she  accepted  it  almost 
without  recognition.  Ay,  even  when  there  came  an  event 
which  six  months  ago  she  would  have  trembled  at — the 
first  dinner-party  at  the  House  on  the  Hill,  given  in  honor 
of  the  bride. 

"  I  must  give  it,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Kivers.  "  You  w^ill 
not  mind  ?    I  hope  it  will  not  trouble  you  very  much." 

"  Oh  no." 

"Be  it  so,  then."  He  walked  off,  and  then  came  back, 
saying,  a  little  awkwardly,"  Of  course,  you  understand  that 
you  keep  your  usual  place  as  mistress  here." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it." 

So  she  sat  at  the  head  of  his  table,  and  did  all  the  honors 
as  lady  of  the  house.  At  w^hich  some  other  ladies,  country 
people  from  a  distance  (for  it  was  a  state  dinner-party), 
looked — just  a  little  surprised.  One  especially,  a  malign- 
looking  old  dowager,  with  two  or  three  unmarried  daugh- 
ters, whispered : 

"  His  sister-in-law,  did  you  tell  me  ?  I  thought  she  was 
quite  a  middle-aged  person.  Better,  perhaps,  if  she  had 
been.  And  they  live  here  together — quite  alone,  you  say? 
Dear  me !" 

The  words  were  inaudible  to  Miss  Thelluson,  but  she 
caught  the  look,  and  during  the  evening  several  other  looks 
of  the  same  inquisitorial  kind.  They  made  her  feel — she 
hardly  knew  why — rather  uncomfortable.  Otherwise  she 
would  have  enjoyed  the  evening  considerably.  No  woman 
is  indifferent  to  the  pleasure  of  being  mistress  of  an  ele- 
gant, well-ordered  house,  where  her  servants  like  her  and 
obey  her — she  doing  her  duty  and  they  theirs,  so  that  all 
things  go  smoothly  and  well,  as  they  did  now.  Also  she 
liked  to  please  Mr.  Kivers,  who  was  much  easier  to  please 
than  formerly.  His  old  sweet  temper,  that  poor  Rosa  used 
so  fondly  to  dilate  on,  had  returned ;  and  oh  !  what  a  rare 
blessing  is  a  sweet  temper  in  a  house,  especially  in  the  head 
of  it !  Then,  by  this  time,  his  sister-in-law  understood  his 
ways,  had  grown  used  to  his  very  weaknesses,  and  found 
they  were  not  so  bad,  after  all.    He  was  far  from  being  her 


HANNAH.  79 

ideal,  certainly;  but  who  are  they  that  ever  find  their  ideal? 
And  Hannah  sighed,  remembering  her  own — the  loveliest 
and  most  lovable  nature  she  had  ever  met,  or  so  it  had 
appeared  to  her  in  her  girlhood's  long-ended  dream.  But 
God  had  taken  Arthur  home ;  and  thinking  of  him  now, 
it  was  more  as  an  angel  than  as  a  mortal  man. 

Looking  round  on  the  men  she  saw  now — and  they  had 
been  a  good  many  lately — she  found  no  one  equal  to  Ber- 
nard Rivers.  As  he  took  his  place  again  in  society,  a 
young  widower  who  had  passed  from  under  the  black- 
est shadow  of  his  loss,  though  it  had  left  in  him  an  abid- 
ing gravity,  he  would  have  been  counted  in  all  circles  an 
attractive  person.  Handsome,  yet  not  obnoxiously  so; 
clever — though  perhaps  more  in  an  appreciative  than  an 
original  fashion ;  pleasant  in  conversation,  yet  never  put- 
ting himself  obtrusively  forward,  he  was  a  man  that  most 
men  liked,  and  all  women  were  sure  to  admire  amazingly. 
Hannah  saw — she  could  not  help  seeing — how  daughters 
brightened  as  he  came  near,  and  mothers  were  extraordi- 
narily tender  to  him ;  and,  in  fact,  had  he  perceived  this — 
which  he  did  not  seem  to  do,  being  very  free  from  self- 
consciousness — Bernard  Rivers  would  have  run  a  very 
good  chance  of  being  thoroughly  "  spoiled." 

He  was  not  yet  spoiled,  however;  it  was  charming  to 
watch  him,  and  see  how  innocently  he  took  all  this  social 
flattery,  which  Hannah  noticed  with  considerable  amuse- 
ment, and  a  sort  of  afiectionate  pleasure  at  thinking  that, 
however  agreeable  he  was  abroad,  he  was  still  more  so  at 
home,  in  those  quiet  evenings,  now  sadly  diminished.  She 
wondered  sometimes  how  long  they  would  last,  how  soon 
her  brother-in-law  would  weary  of  her  companionship,  and 
seek  nearer  and  fonder  ties.  Well,  that  must  be  left  to 
fate  ;  it  was  useless  speculating.  So  she  did  her  best  now ; 
and  when  several  times  during  dinner  he  glanced  across 
the  table  to  her  and  smiled,  and  also  came  more  than  once 
through  the  drawing-rooms  to  look  for  her,  and  say  a 
kindly  word  or  two,  Hannah  was  a  satisfied  and  happy 
woman. 


80  HANNAH. 

Only — during  the  pause  of  a  long  piece  of  concerted 
music  by  the  three  remaining  Misses  Rivers — fancying  she 
heard  Rosie  cry,  she  crept  away  up  stairs,  and  finding  her 
sitting  up  in  her  crib,  sobbing  from  a  bad  dream,  Aunt 
Hannah  caught  her  child  to  her  bosom  more  passionately 
than  usual.  And  when  the  little  thing  clung  for  refuge  to 
her,  and  was  soothed  to  sleep  again  under  showers  of  kiss- 
es, Hannah  thought,  rejoicingly,  that  there  was  one  crea- 
ture in  the  world  to  whom  she  was  absolutely  necessary, 
and  all  in  all. 

His  guests  being  at  length  gone,  the  host  stood  on  his 
hearth-rug  meditative,  even  grave. 

"  Well,  Hannah  !"  he  said  at  last. 

She  looked  up. 

"  So  our  dinner-party  is  safe  over.  It  went  off  beauti- 
fully, I  must  say !" 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  did." 

"  And  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  all  the  trouble 
you  must  have  taken.  I  do  like  to  have  things  nice  and 
in  order — every  man  does.  Especially  as  Lady  Rivers 
was  there.  They  think  so  much  of  these  matters  at  the 
Moat  House." 

Hannah,  half  pleased,  half  vexed,  she  scarce  knew  why, 
answered  nothing. 

"  Yes,  it  was  very  pleasant,  and  the  people  were  pleas- 
ant too.     But  yet  I  think  I  like  our  quiet  evenings  best." 

"  So  do  I,"  Hannah  was  going  to  say,  and  then  hesi- 
tated, with  a  curious  kind  of  shyness,  for  she  had  been 
thinking  the  very  same.  Wondering  also  how  long  this 
gay  life  they  now  led  was  to  go  on,  and  whether  it  would 
end  in  that  climax  for  which  she  was  always  preparing 
herself — Bernard  Rivers  taking  a  second  wife,  and  saying 
to  his  sister-in-law,  "  Thank  you  ;  I  want  you  no  more. 
Good-by !"  A  perfectly  right,  natural,  and  desirable  thing, 
too,  her  reason  told  her.  And  yet — and  yet —  Well !  she 
would,  at  least,  not  meet  difficulties  half-way,  but  would  en- 
joy her  halcyon  days  while  they  lasted. 

So  she  sat  down  with  him  on  the  chair  he  placed  for  her, 


HANNAH.  81 

one  on  either  side  the  fire,  and  proceeded  to  talk  over  the 
dinner  and  the  guests,  with  other  small,  familiar  topics, 
which  people  naturally  fall  into  discussing  when  they  are 
perfectly  at  home  with  each  other,  and  have  one  common 
interest  running  through  their  lives.  All  their  associa- 
tions now  had  the  easy  freedom  of  the  fraternal  relation, 
mingled  with  a  certain  vague  sentiment,  such  as  people 
feel  who  are  not  really  brother  and  sister ;  but,  having 
spent  all  their  prior  lives  apart,  require  to  get  over  a  sort 
of  pleasant  strangeness,  which  has  all  the  charm  of  travel- 
ing in  a  new  country. 

In  the  midst  of  it,  when  they  were  laughing  together 
over  some  wonderful  infantine  jest  of  little  Rosie's,  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  face  looked  stealthily  in. 

Hannah  sprang  up  in  terror.  "  Oh,  Grace !  What  is  it  ? 
Any  thing  wrong  with  baby  ?" 

"  No,  miss,  nothing.  How  wrong  of  me  to  frighten  you 
so  !"  cried  the  young  woman,  contritely,  as  Miss  Thelluson 
dropped  back  in  her  chair,  so  pale  that  Mr.  Rivers  hast- 
ily brought  her  a  glass  of  wine,  and  spoke  sharply  to  the 
nurse. 

Grace  looked  at  him  with  a  scared  face.  "  It's  true.  Sir ; 
I  hardly  know  what  I'm  saying  or  doing.  But  never 
mind  !  The  little  one  is  all  right ;  it's  only  my  own  trou- 
ble. And  I've  kept  it  to  myself  all  day  long  because  I 
wouldn't  trouble  her  when  she  was  busy  over  her  dinner- 
party. But  oh !  miss,  will  you  speak  to  me  now,  for  my 
heart's  breaking  ?" 

"You  should  not  have  minded  my  being  busy,  poor 
girl !"  said  Hannah,  kindly.  "  What  is  it  ?"  And  then, 
with  a  sudden  instinctive  fear  of  what  it  was,  she  added, 
"  But  perhaps  you  would  like  to  go  with  me  into  my  own 
room?" 

"  1^0,  please,  I  want  to  speak  to  the  master  too.  He's  a 
parson,  and  must  know  all  about  it ;  and  it  was  him  that 
he  went  to  first !" 

"  My  good  woman,  if  you'll  only  say  what '  it '  and  '  he ' 
refer  to ;  tell  me  a  plain  story,  and  I'll  give  you  the  best 

D2 


82  HANNAH. 

advice  I  can,  whatever  your  trouble  may  be."  And  Mr. 
Rivers  sat  down,  looking  a  little  bored — like  most  men,  he 
had  a  great  dislike  to  "scenes" — but  still  kindly  enough. 
"  Tell  me,  is  it  any  thing  about  your  husband  ?" 

Hannah  had  not  given  him  credit  for  remembering  that 
fact,  or  for  the  patience  with  which  he  sat  down  to  listen. 

"  My  husband  !"  cried  poor  Grace,  catching  at  the  word, 
and  bursting  out  sobbing.  "  Yes,  you're  right.  Sir,  he  is 
my  husband,  and  I  shall  always  believe  he  is,  though  he 
says  he  isn't,  and  that  I  have  no  claim  upon  him,  no  more 
than  any  wucked  woman  in  the  street.  But  I  was  mar- 
ried, Mr.  Rivers !"  and  the  poor  girl  stood  wringing  her 
hands,  w^hile  her  tears  fell  in  floods.  "He  took  me  to 
London  and  married  me  there  (I've  got  my  certificate  in 
my  pocket),  and  when  we  came  back  every  body  knew  it. 
And  a  year  after,  my  little  baby  was  born — my  poor  little 
baby  that  I  never  told  you  of,  miss,  for  fear  you  should 
send  me  away !" 

"Is  it  living?"  said  Hannah,  gravely,  having  listened, 
as  Mr.  Rivers  did  also,  to  this  torrent  of  grief-stricken 
words. 

"Yes;  he  is  living,  pretty  lamb  !  though  many  a  time  I 
have  wished  he  wasn't,  after  what  his  father  said  when  he 
went  away.  But  that  might  not  be  true,  no  more  true 
than  what  he  sent  me  word  yesterday;  and  I've  been 
nigh  out  of  my  mind  ever  since  !" 

"  What  was  it  ?  Do  keep  to  the  point.  I  can  not  make 
out  the  matter  if  you  talk  so  much,"  said  Mr.  Rivers. 

Hannah  sat  silent,  waiting  for  what  was  coming  next. 
An  uneasy  feeling,  not  exactly  a  fear,  but  not  unlike  it, 
came  over  her,  as  she  recalled  the  long-ago  discussion  at 
the  Moat  House  about  the  Dixon  family. 

Grace  gathered  herself  up,  and  looked  her  master  in  the 
face.  She  w^as  a  sweet-looking  little  w^oman,  usually  reti- 
cent and  quiet  enough,  but  now  she  seemed  desperate 
with  her  wrong. 

"  Dixon  says.  Sir — that's  my  husband  ;  he's  James  Dix- 
on, of  your  parish — that  I'm  not  his  wife  in  law,  and  he 


HANNAH.  83 

can  get  rid  of  me  whenever  he  pleases,  only  he  won't  do 
it  if  I'll  come  back  and  live  with  him,  because  he  likes  me, 
he  says,  and  all  the  poor  children  are  crying  out  for  me. 
But  that  if  I  w^on't  come  back,  he  shall  go  and  marry  an- 
other woman,  Mary  Bridges,  of  Easterham,  that  lived  as 
cook  with  Lady  Rivers.  He'll  put  up  the  banns  here  next 
Sunday,  he  says." 

"  He  can  not.  It  would  be  bigamy." 
"  Bigamy  !  That's  taking  a  second  wife  while  your 
first  wife's  living,  isn't  it,  Sir  ?  And  I'm  living,  though  I 
wasn't  his  first  wife ;  but  I  suppose  that  doesn't  matter. 
Oh,  why  did  I  ever  take  him  !  But  it  was  all  for  them 
poor  children's  sakes ;  and  he  was  such  a  good  husband  to 
my  sister  that  I  thought  for  sure  he'd  be  a  good  husband 
to  me !" 

Mr.  Rivers  started.  "  Stop  a  minute.  Your  story  is  very 
confused ;  but  I  think  I  take  it  in  now.  Is  James  Dixon 
the  Dixon  who  once  came  to  me,  asking  me  to  marry  him 
to  his  deceased  wife's  sister  ?  And  were  you  that  person  ?" 
He  spoke  in  a  formal,  uncomfortable  voice;  his  cheek 
reddened  a  little,  and  he  looked  carefully  away  from  the 
corner  where  Hannah  was  sitting.  She  did  not  move — 
how  could  she  ? — but  she  felt  hot  and  red,  and  wished  her- 
self anywhere  except  where  she  was,  and  was  obliged  to 
remain.     , 

Grace  spoke  on,  full  of  eager  anxiety :  "  Yes,  Sir,  he  did 
come  to  you,  I  know,  and  you  told  him,  he  said,  that  I 
was  not  the  proper  person  for  him  to  marry.  But  he 
thought  I  was,  and  so  did  I,  and  so  did  all  the  neighbors. 
You  see.  Sir " — and  in  her  desperation  the  poor  young 
woman  came  close  up  to  her  master — "  I  was  very  fond  of 
my  poor  sister,  and  she  of  me,  and  when  she  was  dying, 
she  begged  me  to  come  and  take  care  of  her  children. 
Jim  was  very  glad  of  it  too.  And  so  I  went  to  live  with 
him;  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  possible,  and  —  it 
wasn't  wrong,  miss,  was  it  ?" 

Hannah  felt  she  must  answer  the  appeal.  She  did  so 
with  a  half-inaudible  but  distinct  "  No." 


84  HANNAH. 

"Nobody  said  it  was  wrong.  Nobody  blamed  me. 
And  the  children  got  so  fond  of  me,  and  I  made  Jim  so 
comfortable,  that  at  last  he  said  he  couldn't  do  without 
me,  and  we  had  better  get  married  at  once.  Was  that 
wrong,  Sir?" 

"  Yes ;  it  was  against  the  law,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  in  the 
same  cold  tone,  looking  into  the  fire,  and  pushing  back- 
ward and  forward  the  ring  he  wore  on  his  little  finger — 
poor  Rosa's  wedding-ring,  taken  from  her  dead  hand. 

"  But  people  do  it.  Sir.  I  know  two  or  three  in  our  vil- 
lage as  have  done  it,  and  nobody  ever  said  a  word  against 
them.  And,  as  it  was,  people  did  begin  to  say  a  deal 
against  me."  Grace  hung  her  head  a  minute,  and  then 
lifted  it  up  again  in  fierce  innocence.  "  But  it  was  all  lies, 
Sir.  I  declare  before  God  it  was.  I  was  an  honest  girl 
always.  I  told  Jim  I  wouldn't  look  at  him  unless  he  mar- 
ried me.     So  he  did  at  last.     Look  here.  Sir." 

Mr.  Rivers  took  nervously  the  marriage  certificate,  read 
it  over,  gave  it  back  again,  and  still  remained  silent. 

"  It's  all  right,  Sir  ?    I  know  it  is  !     He  did  marry  me  ?" 

"Yes— but— " 

"And  it  wasn't  true  what  he  said  when,  after  a  while, 
he  took  to  drinking,  and  we  squabbled  a  bit — that  he 
could  get  rid  of  me  whenever  he  liked,  and  marry  some- 
body else  ?  It  wasn't  true,  Sir  ?  Oh,  please  say  it  wasn't 
true,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  my  poor  baby  !" 

And  Grace  stood  waiting  for  the  answer  that  to  her  was 
life  or  death. 

All  this  while  Miss  Thelluson  had  sat  silent,  scarcely 
lifting  her  eyes  from  the  carpet,  except  once  or  twice  to 
poor  Grace's  face,  with  keen  compassion.  Not  that  the 
question  seemed  to  concern  her  much,  or  that  she  attempt- 
ed to  decide  the  wrong  or  right  of  it ;  only  the  whole  case 
seemed  so  very  pitiful.  And  she  had  grown  fond  of  Grace, 
who  was  a  very  good  girl,  and  in  feeling  and  education 
rather  superior  to  her  class. 

As  for  Mr.  Rivers,  the  look  in  his  eyes,  which  he  care- 
fully kept  from  meeting  any  other's  eyes,  was  not  com- 


HANNAU.  85 

passion  at  all ;  but  perplexity,  uneasiness,  even  irritation — 
the  annoyance  of  a  man  who  finds  himself  in  a  difiicult  po- 
sition, which  he  wishes  sincerely  he  were  well  out  of. 

To  Grace's  frantic  question  he  gave  no  reply  at  all. 
She  noticed  this,  and  the  form  of  her  entreaty  changed. 

"  You  don't  think  I  did  wrong  to  marry  him.  Sir  ?  You 
are  a  parson,  and  ought  to  know.  Was  it  wicked,  do  you 
think  ?  My  sister — that's  Mrs.  John  Dixon,  a  very  good, 
religious  woman,  and  a  Methody,  too — told  me  no ;  that 
the  Bible  said  a  man  was  not  to  marry  his  wife's  sister  in 
her  lifetime,  which  meant  that  he  might  do  it  after  her 
death." 

"Apparently you  have  studied  the  subject  very  closely; 
closer,  I  doubt  not,  than  I  have,"  replied  Mr.  Rivers,  in  that 
hard  voice  of  his.  Hannah  thought  it  at  the  time  almost 
cruel.  "  Therefore  there  is  the  less  need  for  me  to  give 
you  any  opinion,  which  I  am  very  reluctant  to  do." 

A  blank  look  came  into  poor  Grace's  beseeching  eyes. 
"  But,  Sir,  my  sister — " 

"  Mrs.  Dixon  is  a  Dissenter,  many  of  whom,  I  believe, 
think  as  she  does  on  this  matter;  but  we  Church  people 
can  only  hold  to  the  prayer-book  and  the  law.  Both  for- 
bid such  marriages  as  yours.  You  being  brother  and 
sister — " 

"  But  we  weren't.  Sir ;  not  even  cousins.  Indeed,  I  nev- 
er set  eyes  on  Jim  till  just  before  Jane  died." 

"  You  being  brother  and  sister,"  irritably  repeated  Mr. 
Rivers,  "  or  the  law  making  you  such — " 

"  But  how  could  it  make  us  when  we  were  not  born  so  ?" 
pleaded  poor  Grace,  with  a  passionate  simplicity. 

"  You  being  brother  and  sister,"  Mr.  Rivers  said,  for  the 
third  time,  and  now  with  actual  sternness, "  you  could  not 
possibly  be  married.  Or  if  you  were  married,  as  you  say, 
it  was  wholly  against  the  law.  James  Dixon  has  taken 
advantage  of  this,  as  I  have  heard  of  other  men  doing ; 
but  I  did  not  believe  it  of  him." 

Grace  turned  whiter  and  w^hiter.  "  Then  what  he  say« 
is  really  true  ?    I  am  not  his  wife  ?" 


86  HANNAH. 

"  I  can't  help  you ;  I  wish  I  could,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  at 
last  looking  down  ujDon  the  piteous  face.  "  I  am  afraid  it 
is  only  too  true." 

"And  my  baby,  my  baby !  I  don't  care  for  myself 
much  !  but  my  baby  I" 

"  If  you  ask  me  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  must  tell  it.  I 
refused  to  marry  James  Dixon  because  I  knew  it  would 
be  no  marriage  at  all,  and  could  only  be  effected  by  de- 
ceiving the  clergyman,  as  I  suppose  was  done.  Therefore 
you  are  not  his  wife,  and  your  baby  is,  of  course,  an  illegit- 
imate child." 

Grace  gave  a  shrill  scream  that  might  have  been  heard 
through  the  house.  Lest  it  should  be  heard,  or  from  some 
other  instinct  which  she  did  not  reason  upon.  Miss  Thellu- 
son  jumped  up,  and  shut  and  bolted  the  door.  When  she 
turned  back  the  poor  girl  lay  on  the  floor  in  a  dead  faint. 

Hannah  took  her  up  in  her  arras. 

"  Please  help  me !"  she  said  to  Mr.  Kivers,  not  looking 
at  him.  "I  think  the  servants  are  all  gone  to  bed.  I 
hope  they  are ;  it  will  be  much  better.  Once  get  her  up 
stairs,  and  I  can  look  after  her  myself." 

"  Can  you  ?    Will  it  not  harm  you  ?" 

"  Oh  no !"  and  Hannah  looked  pitifully  on  the  stony 
face  that  lay  on  her  lap.  "  It  has  been  very  hard  for  her. 
Poor  thing !  poor  thing  !" 

Mr.  Rivers  said  nothing,  but  silently  obeyed  his  sister- 
in-law's  orders,  and  between  them  they  carried  Grace  up 
to  Miss  Thelluson's  room.  Almost  immediately  afterward 
she  heard  him  close  the  door  of  his  own,  and  saw  no  more 
of  him,  or  any  one  except  her  charge,  till  morning. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Miss  Thelluson  had  always  been  lamentably  deficient 
in  the  quality  which  is  called  "  respect  of  persons."  She 
tended  her  servant  half  the  night  through  as  carefully  as 
if  poor  Grace  had  been  her  j^ersonal  friend,  and  a  lady 


•     HANNAH.  8V 

born.  There  was,  indeed,  much  of  the  lady  about  the  girl, 
which  was  Hannah's  great  comfort  in  having  her  as  nurse 
— a  refinement  of  manner  and  feeling,  and  a  fine  sense  of 
honor,  not  always  found  in  her  class.  For  since  she  had 
been  mistress  of  a  large  house  and  many  servants  Miss 
Thelluson  had  discovered  to  her  grief  that,  in  these  days, 
the  moral  standard  of  kitchen  and  parlor  was  not  always 
the  same.  Still,  in  her  nurse  she  had  always  comfort ;  and 
Grace,  probably  on  account  of  this  difference,  or  for  other 
reasons — now  patent  enough — had  seemed  to  dislike  mix- 
ing much  with  the  other  servants.  Her  mistress  could 
trust  her  thoroughly.  She  was,  indeed,  quite  a  personal 
friend — as  every  faithful  servant  ought  to  be. 

When  the  poor  girl  came  to  herself  she  poured  her  whole 
sad  story  into  her  mistress's  patient  ^ar. 

"  I  had  no  idea  I  was  doing  wrong — no,  that  I  hadn't !" 
moaned  she.  "  Two  or  three  in  our  village  had  married 
their  sister's  husband.  "What  can  a  poor  working-man  do 
when  he  is  left  with  a  lot  of  children,  but  get  their  aunt  to 
come  and  look  after  them  ?  And  then,  if  she's  young,  or, 
indeed,  anyhow,  people  are  sure  to  begin  talking.  Isn't 
it  better  to  stop  their  wicked  tongues  l)y  marrying  her  at 
once,  and  making  all  right  and  comfortable  ?  For  they're 
not  comfortable — I  wasn't.  And  they're  not  real  brother 
and  sister,  whatever  master  says.  And  I'm  sure  they  can 
be  married ;  for  there  was  our  old  squire,  he  married  two 
sisters,  and  had  two  families,  one  all  girls,  the  other  boys. 
And  the  eldest  son  by  the  second  marriage — young  Mr. 
Melville — came  in  for  the  property,  and  is  the  squire  now. 
And  nobody  ever  said  his  mother  wasn't  lawfully  mar- 
ried, no  more  than,  when  I  came  home  from  London,  the 
neighbors  said  I  wasn't  married  to  Jim.  Married  in  church, 
too,  though  we  were  Methodists  both ;  and  neither  the  par- 
son nor  our  own  minister  ever  said  a  word  against  it." 

Though  the  poor  girl  talked  in  a  wild,  rambling,  excited 
fashion,  still  there  was  some  sense  in  her  arguments  ;  and 
when  she  implored  Miss  Thelluson  to  speak  to  Mr.  Rivers 
again,  and  repeat  all  she  said,  and  ask  if  there  was  not  a 


83  HANNAH. 

chance  of  his  having  been  mistaken,  or  if  he  could  not, 
at  least,  prevent  the  marriage  with  Ann  Bridges,  Hannah 
scarcely  knew  what  to  say.  At  last,  just  to  soothe  her — 
for,  out  of  consideration  to  her  mistress,  Grace  had  kept 
her  misery  to  herself  for  a  day  and  a  half,  till  it  had  al- 
most driven  her  frantic — she  promised  to  do  her  best  in 
the  matter. 

"  And  you'll  do  it  at  once,  miss ;  and  tell  master  that 
whatever  is  done  should  be  done  at  once,  or  Jim  will  get 
married,  and  then  what  is  to  become  of  me  and  my  poor 
child  ?  It  isn't  myself  that  I  care  for.  I  didn't  do  wrong ; 
God  knows  I  didn't !  And  I  don't  mind  what  folk  say  of 
me  ;  but  it's  my  poor  boy.  And  it's  Jim,  too,  a  little ;  I 
don't  want  Jim  to  do  wrong  either." 

And  she  shed  a  few  tears  over  even  the  bad  fellow,  who, 
she  confessed,  had  in  his  drunken  fits  beaten  her  many  a 
time. 

"  But  I  forgive  him,  for  he  was  drunk,"  said  she,  using 
that  too  common  but  mistaken  excuse.  "And  then  I  had 
the  children  to  comfort  me.  Such  dear  little  things  they 
were,  and  so  fond  of  me !  And  he'll  go  and  bring  that 
woman  Bridges  to  be  step-mother  over  them,  and  she  is  a 
bad  temper,  and  she's  sure  to  ill-treat  them,  poor  lambs  ! 
Jenny's  poor  little  motherless  lambs  !  I  must  go  back  to 
them  directly."  And  she  sat  up  in  bed,  in  an  agony  of 
distress.  "  Oh,  miss,  please  give  me  my  clothes,  and  I'll 
get  up  and  dress,  and  be  off  by  daylight." 

This  bitter  grief,  not  over  her  own  boy— who,  she  said, 
was  safe  with  his  grandmother — but  over  her  dead  sister's 
children,  touched  Hannah  to  the  quick.  She  could  under- 
stand it  so  well. 

"  You  must  lie  quiet,"  said  she ;  "  or,  rather,  you  must 
go  back  to  your  own  bed  beside  Rosie.  You  have  quite 
forgotten  Rosie." 

The  right  chord  was  struck.  The  young  woman  had 
evidently  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  besides  being  excessively 
fond  of  her  charge ;  for  Rosie  was  a  little  creature  that 
won  every  body.      So  she  sat  up,  fastened  back  her  di- 


HANNAH.  89 

sheveled  hair,  and  with  her  mistress's  help  tottered  back 
to  the  nursery.  Soon  she  settled  herself  in  her  customary- 
corner,  stretching  out  a  caressing  hand  to  the  crib  beside 
her  bed,  where,  sleeping  quite  alone,  but  as  sweetly  as  if  all 
the  angels  of  heaven  were  watching  over  her,  little  Rosie  lay. 

"Ah !  baby,  baby,"  Grace  sobbed,  "  what  would  have  be- 
come of  me  all  these  months  without  you,  baby!" 

What  would  become  of  many  a  miserable  woman  if  it 
were  not  for  a  baby  ! 

How  Grace  had  ever  left  her  own  Hannah  could  not  im- 
agine ;  but  found  afterward  it  was  the  hard  necessity  of 
earning  money,  the  grandmother  being  very  poor,  and  Jim 
Dixon  having  gone  off  in  search  of  work,  and  left  the  whole 
combined  families  in  the  old  woman's  hands.  Now  he  re- 
claimed his  three  eldest,  but  disowned  Grace's  unfortunate 
babe. 

"My  boy — remember  my  boy !"  implored  she,  as  in  the 
dim  dawn  of  the  morning  her  mistress  left  her,  hoping  her 
utter  exhaustion  would  incline  her  to  sleep.  "Promise 
me  that  you  will  speak  to  the  master,  if  only  for  the  sake 
of  my  poor  boy." 

Hannah  promised ;  but  when  she  went  back  to  her  room 
and  thought  it  all  over — for  she  could  not  sleep — she  was 
sorely  perplexed.  There  might  be  some  mistake,  even 
though  Mr.  Rivers,  who  was  a  magistrate  as  well  as  a 
clergyman,  spoke  so  decidedly.  Grace's  arguments  were 
strong ;  and  the  case  of  Mr.  Melville,  whom  she  had  her- 
self met  at  the  Moat  House,  was,  to  say  the  least,  curious. 
She  herself  knew  nothing  of  the  law.  If  she  could  only 
speak  to  any  body  who  did  know,  instead  of  to  her  broth- 
er-in-law !  Once  she  thought  of  writing  to  Lady  Duns- 
more;  but  then  what  would  the  countess  imagine?  No 
doubt,  that  she  wanted  the  information  for  herself.  And 
Hannah  grew  hot  all  over  with  shame  and  pain,  and  an- 
other feeling  which  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  and 
which  she  did  not  stay  to  analyze,  except  that  it  made  her 
feel  more  reluctant  than  ever  to  name  the  subject  again  to 
Mr.  Rivers. 


90  HANNAH. 

Still  Grace  was  so  unfortunate ;  so  innocently  wicked—' 
if  wickedness  there  was.  And  the  projected  marriage  of 
Dixon  seemed  much  more  so. 

"  Mr.  Rivers  will  never  allow  it  in  his  church.  He  sure- 
ly would  not  sanction  such  a  cruel  thing,  even  if  it  be  le- 
gal. And  there  is  no  time  to  lose.  Whatever  it  costs  me, 
I  must  speak  to  him  at  once." 

With  this  resolution,  and  deadening  her  mind  to  any 
other  thoughts,  Hannah  lay  down,  and  tried  to  sleep,  but 
in  vain.  After  an  hour  or  two  of  restless  tossing,  she 
dressed  herself,  and  descended  to  the  breakfast-room. 

There  she  found  Mr.  Rivers  playing  with  little  Rosie — 
contrary  to  his  habit ;  for  he  seldom  saw  her  of  mornings. 
He  looked  a  little  confused  at  being  discovered. 

"I  sent  for  the  child,"  said  he.  "  Don't  you  think,  Aunt 
Hannah,  she  is  old  enough  to  come  down  to  breakfast 
with  us?" 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Hannah,  smiling ;  "  but  she  can  stay 
and  play  about  on  the  floor.  I  dare  say  she  will  be  good 
— w^on't  she,  auntie's  darling  ?" 

And  auntie  clasped  fondly  the  little  thing,  who  had  tot- 
tered up  to  her  and  hid  the  pretty  fair  head  in  her  gown- 
skirt.  Mr.  Rivers  looked  at  them,  and  turned  suddenly 
away — as  he  often  did  now. 

Rosie  behaved  beautifully — for  about  five  minutes  ! — 
and  then  began  to  perpetrate  a  few  ignorant  naughti- 
nesses ;  such  as  pulling  down  a  silver  fork,  and  a  butter- 
knife,  with  a  great  clatter;  then  creeping  beneath  the  ta- 
ble, and  trying  to  stand  upright  there,  which  naturally 
caused  a  bump  on  the  head,  and  a  scream  so  violent  that 
Aunt  Hannah,  frightened  out  of  all  proprieties,  quitted  her 
seat  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  soothing  in  her 
arms  the  piteous  little  waller. 

"This  will  never  do,"  said  papa,  sternly.  "Pray  take 
the  child  up  stairs." 

Which  Hannah  thankfully  did,  and  staid  away  some 
minutes ;  feeling  that,  after  all,  the  nursery  was  the  safest, 
the  most  peaceful,  and  the  pleasantest  room  in  the  house. 


HANNAH,  91 

When  she  came  back,  her  brother-in-law  had  finished 
breakfast,  and  was  standing  gazing  out  of  the  sunshiny 
window  in  a  sort  of  dream.  His  temporary  crossness  had 
subsided ;  his  face,  though  grave,  was  exceedingly  sweet. 
Now  that  she  had  grown  used  to  it,  and  it  had  gradually 
brightened,  if  not  into  happiness,  at  least  into  composure 
and  peace,  Hannah  sometimes  thought  she  had  seldom 
seen  so  thoroughly  sweet  a  face — such  a  combination  of 
the  man  and  the  woman — that  beautiful  woman  whose 
picture  at  the  Moat  House  she  often  looked  at,  and  won- 
dered what  kind  of  young  creature  the  first  Lady  Rivers 
had  been.  Apparently  not  like  the  second  Lady  Rivers 
at  all. 

It  w^as  exactly  his  mother's  smile  with  which  Mr.  Rivers 
turned  round  now. 

"So  the  little  maid  is  comforted  at  last.  What  influ- 
ence you  w^omen  have  over  babies,  and  what  helpless  be- 
ings we  men  are  with  them !  Why,  it  is  as  much  as  papa 
can  do  to  keep  Miss  Rosie  quiet  for  five  minutes,  and 
Aunt  Hannah  has  her  the  whole  day.  Do  you  never  tire 
of  her?" 

"  JSTever.  IN'o  more  does  Grace,  who  has  an  instinctive 
love  for  children — which  all  w^omen  have  not,  I  assure 
you.  This  is  what  makes  her  so  valuable  as  a  nurse." 
•  Hannah  said  this  intentionally ;  for,  not  two  minutes 
before,  the  girl  had  run  after  her  with  a  wild  white  face. 
"Have  you  spoken  to  the  master?  Will  you  speak  to 
him?  Don't  forsake  me!  Ask  him  to  help  me!  Oh, 
Miss  Thelluson,  I'm  fond  of  your  child — think  of  mine !" 
Even  if  Hannah  had  not  liked  and  respected  Grace  so 
much,  to  her  good  heart,  now  open  to  all  children  for 
Rosie's  sake,  this  argument  would  have  struck  home. 

"  I  hope  the  young  woman  is  better  this  morning,  and 
that  you  did  not  fatigue  yourself  too  much  with  her  last 
night,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  coldly ;  and  then  began  speaking 
of  something  else.  But  Hannah,  bracing  up  her  cour- 
age, determined  to  discharge  her  unpleasant  duty  at 
once. 


92  HANNAH. 

"  Have  you  ten  minutes  to  spare  ?  Because  I  have  a 
special  message  to  you  from  Mrs.  Dixon." 

"What  Mrs.  Dixon?" 

"  Grace.  She  insists  upon  it  she  has  a  legal  right  to  the 
name." 

"She  is  under  a  complete  delusion,  and  the  sooner  she 
wakes  up  out  of  it  the  better.  Pray,  Hannah,  do  not,  with 
your  weak  womanish  pity,  encourage  her  for  a  moment." 

Mr.  Rivers  spoke  sharply — more  sharply  than  any  gen- 
tleman ought  to  speak  to  any  lady;  though  men  some- 
times think  they  are  justified  in  doing  so — to  wives  and 
sisters.  But  her  brother-in-law  had  never  thus  spoken  to 
Hannah  before — she  was  not  used  to  it ;  and  she  looked 
at  him,  first  surprised,  then  slightly  indignant. 

"My  pity  is  not  weak  or  womanish,  nor  do  I  call  it  pity 
at  all.  It  is  simple  love  of  justice.  Either  Grace  is  mar- 
ried or  not  married.  All  I  want  is,  for  her  sake  and  the 
child's,  to  find  out  the  exact  law  of  the  case." 

"Which  is  just  what  I  told  her  last  night.  No  doubt 
she  was  married,  as  she  says;  only  the  marriage,  being 
illegal,  is  null  and  void." 

"  But  she  says  such  marriages  are  not  uncommon." 

"I  believe  they  are  not, in  the  lower  classes.  Never- 
theless, those  who  risk  them  must  take  the  consequences. 
The  wife  is  only  the  mistress,  and  the  children  are  base- 
born.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  putting  plain  facts  into  plain 
language,  but  you  compel  me.  Why  will  you  meddle  in 
tliis  unpleasant  matter  ?    It  can  be  nothing  to  you." 

And  he  looked  at  her  keenly  as  he  spoke,  but  Hannah 
did  not  perceive  it  just  then.  Her  interest  was  too  strong- 
ly excited  for  the  cruel  position  of  poor  Grace.  She  re- 
called involuntarily  an  old  argument  of  Lady  Dunsmore 
on  this  very  subject — whether  any  wrong  could  be  exact- 
ly "nothing"  to  any  honest-minded  man  or  woman,  even 
though  he  or  she  were  not  personally  affected  thereby. 

"  Pardon  me,"  she  answered,  gently,  "  it  is  something 
to  me  to  see  any  human  being  in  great  misery,  if  by  any 
possibility  that  misery  could  be  removed.     Are  you  quite 


HANNAH.  93 

sure  you  are  right  as  to  the  law  ?  It  can  not  always  have 
been  what  you  say,  because  Grace  tells  me  of  a  certain 
Mr.  Melville  who  visits  at  the  Moat  House — "  And  Han^ 
nah  repeated  the  story.  "  Can  it  be  possible,"  added  she, 
"  that  there  is  one  law  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the 
poor  ?" 

"  No.  But  in  1 835  the  law  was  altered,  or  at  least  modi- 
fied: all  such  marriages  then  existing  were  confirmed, 
and  all  future  ones  declared  illegal.  Melville  escaped  by 
a  hair -breadth  only,  his  parents  having  been  married 
in  1834." 

"Then  what  was  right  one  year  was  wrong  the  next? 
That  is,  to  my  weak  womanly  notions,  a  very  extraordi- 
nary form  of  justice." 

Her  brother-in-law  regarded  her  inquiringly.  Evident- 
ly he  was  surprised ;  did  not  at  first  take  in  the  intense 
single-minded ness  of  the  woman  who  could  thus  throw 
herself  out  of  herself,  and  indignantly  argue  the  cause  of 
another,  even  though  it  trenched  upon  ground  so  delicate 
that  most  feminine  instincts  would  have  let  it  alone.  He 
looked  at  her ;  and  then  his  just  nature  divining  the  utter 
innocence  and  indifierence  out  of  which  she  spoke,  he  said 
nothing — only  sighed. 

"  You  are  a  very  good  woman,  Hannah — I  know  that — 
and  Grace  ought  to  be  exceedingly  obliged  to  you.  But 
you  can  not  help  her — not  in  the  least." 

"And  can  not  you  ?  Could  you  not,  at  least,  prevent 
the  man's  marrying  another  woman — as  he  means  to  do  in 
your  very  church  next  Sunday  ?" 

"  Does  he  ?  The  brute  !"  cried  Mr.  Rivers,  passionately. 
Then,  relapsing  into  his  former  coldness — "  I  fear  nothing 
can  be  done.  The  former  marriage  being  invalid,  he  can 
contract  another  at  any  time — legally,  I  mean ;  the  moral 
question  is  a  different  thing." 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  Hannah,  bitterly  ;  for  she  Avas  vexed 
at  his  manner — it  seemed  so  hard,  so  unlike  his  usual  warm, 
generous  way  of  judging  matters.  "But,"  she  argued,  re- 
solved to  leave  not  a  stone  unturned  for  her  poor  servant's 


94  HANNAH. 

sake,  "  if  the  marriage  with  Grace  was  unlawful,  why  can 
not  he  be  prosecuted  for  that,  as  for  bigamy  or  similar  of- 
fenses ?  Either  it  was  a  crime,  or  it  was  not.  If  it  was, 
punish  it  by  the  law  ;  if  not — " 

"  You  reason  like  a  woman,"  interrupted  Mr.  Rivers  an- 
grily. "  When  I,  a  man,  have  already  argued  the  question 
with  myself  in  every  possible  way — "  He  stopped  abrupt- 
ly. "I  mean  that  you  women  will  only  see  two  sides  of  a 
subject — the  right  and  the  wrong." 

"  Yes,  thank  Heaven  1" 

"  Whereas  there  are  many  sides,  and  a  man  requires  to 
see  them  all.  But  we  are  slipping  into  ethical  discussion, 
which  you  and  I  are  rather  prone  to,  Aunt  Hannah.  Sup- 
pose, instead,  we  go  and  look  at  our  roses?" 

Go  and  look  at  roses  when  a  fellow-creature  was  hang- 
ing on  every  breath  of  theirs  for  hope  or  despair !  Han- 
nah had  never  thought  her  brother-in-law  so  hard-hearted. 

"  I  can't  go,"  she  said.  "  I  must  first  speak  to  poor 
Gi-ace.     What  shall  I  say  to  her  ?" 

"  Whatever  you  like.  But  I  think  the  less  you  say  the 
better.  And  perhaps,  if  you  could  gently  hint  it,  the  soon- 
er she  leaves  us  the  better.  Of  course  she  will  have  to 
leave." 

"  Leave !"  repeated  Hannah,  much  startled  by  the  new 
phase  which  this  most  unlucky  affair  was  assuming. 
"  Why  '  of  course  ?'     I  never  thought  of  her  leaving." 

"  Do  you  not  see  ?  But  no,  you  can  not — you  see  noth- 
ing at  all !"  muttered  Bernard  Rivers  to  himself.  "  Do 
you  not  perceive,"  continued  he,  earnestly,  "  that  we  live 
in  a  house  on  a  hill,  morally  as  well  as  physically  ?  That 
a  clergyman  must  keep  himself  out  of  the  slightest  shadow 
of  evil  comment  ?  I  especially,  both  as  rector  of  Easter- 
ham  and  as  Sir  Austin's  son,  must  expect  to  have  my  acts 
and  motives  sharply  criticised,  and  perhaps  many  a  mo- 
tive ascribed  to  me  which  does  not  exist.  No ;  I  have 
been  thinking  the  matter  over  all  the  morning,  and  I  see 
no  alternative.  Grace  ought  to  go.  I  believe  Lady  Riv- 
ers and  all  at  the  Moat  House  would  say  the  same." 


H  ANN  All.  '  95 

Hannah  drew  back.  She  had  never  resisted  her  brother- 
in-law  before — not  even  in  cases  where  she  had  thought 
him  a  little  wrong :  though  this  happened  seldom.  She 
bad  found  out  that,  like  most  men  who  are  neither  selfish 
nor  egotistical,  he  was  remarkably  just.  Now  she  felt 
him  to  be  unjust.  To  send  away  Rosie's  fond  and  faithful 
nurse  would  be  to  the  child  herself  a  very  harmful  thing — 
to  Grace,  in  her  circumstances,  a  bitter  unkindness,  not  to 
say  an  actual  wrong ;  and  Miss  Thelluson  was  not  the 
woman  to  stand  tamely  by  and  see  a  wrong  done  to  any 
human  being  if  she  could  help  it. 

Still  it  was  needful  to  be  very  guarded,  and  she  might 
even  have  been  less  courageous  had  not  the  allusion  to 
the  Moat  House  and  its  opinions  —  always  more  or  less 
shallow  and  worldly — stirred  up  in  her  something  of  that 
righteous  indignation  which  blazed  up,  quite  unexpectedly 
sometimes,  in  Aunt  Hannah's  quiet  bosom. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said,  more  formally  than  she  was  used 
to  speak,  in  the  free  and  pleasant,  even  affectionate,  rela- 
tions that  now  subsisted  between  Mr.  Rivers  and  herself. 
"  Lady  Rivers  is  mistress  of  the  Moat  House,  but  not  of 
the  House  on  the  Hill.  When  you  did  me  the  honor  to 
give  me  that  position,  you  distinctly  said  I  should  manage 
it  as  I  chose.  I  claim  my  right.  For  Rosie's  sake,  I  must 
beg  of  you  not  to  send  away  her  nurse." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  you  will  not  see  !  How  can  I,  placed 
as  I  am,  keep  in  my  house  a  woman  who  is  disgraced  for 
life?" 

"  Not  disgraced ;  only  unfortunate.  She  is  a  very  good 
girl  indeed.  She  protests  solemnly  she  had  not  an  idea 
that  in  marrying  James  Dixon  she  was  doing  wrong." 

"  How  you  women  do  hold  to  your  point !"  said  Mr. 
Rivers,  in  great  irritation,  almost  agitation.  "  But  she  has 
done  wrong.  She  has  broken  the  law.  In  the  eye  of  the 
law  she  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  poor  seduced  girl, 
mother  of  a  bastard  child." 

Now  Hannah  Thelluson  was  an  exceedingly  "proper" 
person.     That  is,  though  not  ignorant  of  the  wickedness 


96  HANNAH. 

of  the  world  —  the  things  "  done  in  secret,"  as  St.  Paul 
terras  them  —  she  agreed  with  St.  Paul  that  it  was  a 
shame  to  speak  of  them,  unless  unavoidable,  and  for  some 
good  end.  If  duty  required,  she  would  have  waded 
through  any  quantity  of  filth  ;  but  she  did  not  like  it ; 
she  preferred  keeping  in  clean  paths  if  possible.  Often- 
times she  had  been  startled,  not  to  say  shocked,  by  the 
light  way  in  which  some  fast  young  ladies  who  came  about 
the  Moat  House,  and  even  the  Misses  Rivers  themselves, 
talked  of  things  which  she  and  the  girls  of  her  generation 
scarcely  knew  existed,  and  certainly  would  never  have 
spoken  about,  except  to  their  own  mothers.  And  among 
the  qualities  in  Mr.  Rivers  which  first  drew  her  toward 
him  was  one  which  women  soon  instinctively  find  out  in 
men — as  men,  they  say,  in  women — that  rare  delicacy  of 
thought  and  action  which  no  outward  decorum  can  ever 
imitate,  because  it  springs  from  an  innate  chastity  of  soul. 
Thus,  when,  in  his  excitement,  Mr.  Rivers  used  such  ex- 
ceedingly plain  ugly  words.  Miss  Thelluson  looked  at  him 
in  intense  astonishment,  and  blushed  all  over  her  face. 

Some  people  called  Hannah  a  plain  woman — that  is,  she 
was  tall  and  thin  and  colorless,  not  unlike  the  white  lily 
she  had  been  compared  to ;  but  when  she  blushed,  it  was 
like  the  white  lily  with  a  rosy  sunset  glow  upon  it.  For 
the  moment  she  looked  absolutely  pretty.  Something  in 
Mr.  Rivers's  eyes  made  her  conscious  that  he  thought  so — 
or,  at  least,  that  he  was  thinking  of  her,  and  not  of  poor 
Grace  or  the  subject  in  hand  at  all. 

"Why  do  you  not  oftener  wear  white — I  like  it  so 
much  ?"  he  said,  softly  touching  her  gown,  a  thick  muslin, 
embroidered  with  black,  which  she  thought  would  be  a 
sort  of  medieval  compromise.  She  was  so  fond  of  white 
that  it  was  half  regretfully  she  had  decided  she  was  too 
old  to  wear  it.  But  among  her  new  dresses  she  could  not 
resist  this  one.  It  pleased  her  to  have  it  noticed,  or  would 
have  done,  had  not  her  mind  been  full  of  other  things. 

"  I  was  going  to  the  picnic  in  Langmead  Wood,  you 
know;  but  never  mind  that  just  now.     Before  I  start  I 


HANNAH.  97 

shall  have  to  tell  poor  Grace  her  doom.  A  heavy  blow  it 
will  be.  Do  not  ask  me  to  make  it  worse  by  telling  her 
she  must  leave  ns." 

Bernard  was  silent. 

"I  can  not  bear  to  resist  your  will,"  pleaded  she. 
"  When  I  first  came  here  I  made  up  my  mind  to  obey  you 
— that  is,  in  all  domestic  things — even  as  she  would  have 
done.  But  even  she  would  have  resisted  you  in  this. 
Were  she  living  now,  I  am  sure  she  would  say  exactly  as 
I  do — dear,  tender-hearted  Rosa !" 

"Why  do  you  name  her?"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  in  a  low 
tone.     "Are  you  not  afraid?" 

"Afraid!  Why.  should  I  be?  Of  all  women  I  ever 
knew,  my  sister  had  the  truest  heart,  the  quickest  sense  of 
justice.  If  she  thought  a  thing  was  right,  she  would  say 
it — ay,  and  do  it,  too — in  face  of  the  whole  world.  So 
would  I." 

"Would  you?  Are  you  one  of  those  women  who  have 
courage  to  defy  the  world  ?" 

"  I  think  I  am,  if  I  were  tried ;  but  I  never  have  been 
tried.  I  hope  I  never  may  be ;  and  I  hope,  too,  that  you 
will  save  me  from  doing  any  more  in  the  defiant  line," 
added  she,  smiling,  "  by  retracting  what  you  said,  and  let- 
ting Grace  stay." 

"  But  how  can  she  stay?  How  can  you  keep  her  miser- 
able story  a  secret?" 

"  I  should  not  keep  it  a  secret  at  all.  I  would  tell  every 
body  the  whole  truth,  explaining  that  we  drew  the  line 
between  guilt  and  innocence;  that  you  refused  to  marry 
James  Dixon  to  this  new  wife  of  his,  but  that  the  poor 
creature  whom  he  had  made  believe  she  was  his  wife 
should  stay  under  the  shelter  of  your  roof  as  long  as  she 
liked.  That,  I  am  sure,  would  be  the  just  and  right  way 
to  act.     Shall  it  be  so  ?" 

"  You  are  a  courageous  woman,  Hannah.  But,"  added 
he,  with  a  sad  kind  of  smile,  "  it  is  like  the  courage  of  little 
boys  venturing  on  our  frozen  pond  there:  they  do  not 
know  how  deep  it  is.     No,  no ;  I  can  not  thus  run  counter 

E 


98  HANNAH. 

to  my  own  people  and  to  all  the  world.     In  truth,  I  dare 
not." 

"Dare  not!"  Hannah  blazed  up,  in  that  sudden  way 
of  hers  whenever  she  saw  a  wrong  done — doubly  so  when 
any  one  she  cared  for  did  it.  She  had  lived  with  Mr.  Riv- 
ers nearly  a  year  now,  and,  whether  she  cared  for  him  or 
not,  she  had  never  seen  any  thing  in  him  which  made  her 
cease  to  respect  him.  Until  now.  "  Dare  not !"  she  re- 
peated, almost  doubting  if  she  had  heard  truly.  "  When 
there  is  a  certain  course  of  conduct  open  to  him,  be  it  right 
or  wrong,  I  always  believed  that  the  last  reason  an  honest 
man  gave  for  declining  it  would  be,  'I  dare  not !'" 

The  moment  she  had  made  this  bitter  speech — one  of 
the  old  sarcastic  speeches  of  her  girlhood — Hannah  saw  it 
was  a  mistake ;  that  she  was  taking  with  Mr.  Rivers  a 
liberty  which  even  a  flesh-and-blood  sister  had  no  right  to 
take,  and  she  was  certain  he  felt  it  so.  All  the  proud  Nor- 
man blood  rushed  up  to  his  forehead. 

"  I  never  knew  I  was  a  coward.  Miss  Thelluson.  Since 
you  think  me  one,  I  will  relieve  you  of  my  company." 

Opening  the  French  window  at  once,  he  passed  out  of  it 
into  the  garden,  and  disappeared. 

Hannah  stood,  overwhelmed.  During  all  the  months 
they  had  lived  under  the  same  roof,  and  in  the  close  in- 
timacy that  was  inevitable  under  the  circumstances,  she 
and  her  brother-in-law  had  never  had  any  thing  approach- 
ing to  a  quarrel.  They  had  differed  widely  sometimes, 
but  always  amicably,  and  upon  abstract  rather  than  per- 
sonal grounds.  Those  "sharp  words,"  which  even  the 
dearest  friends  say  to  one  another  sometimes,  had  never 
passed  between  them.  His  extraordinarily  sweet  temper 
— oh,  how  keenly  Hannah  now  appreciated  her  sister's 
fond  praise  of  the  blessing  it  was  to  have  a  sweet-tem- 
pered husband ! — his  utter  absence  of  worldliness  and  self- 
conceit  ;  and  that  warm,  good  heart,  which,  as  the  cloud 
of  misery  slowly  passed  away  from  him,  shone  out  in  every 
thing  he  did  and  said  —  all  these  things  made  quarreling 
with  Bernard  Rivers  almost  impossible. 


HANNAH.  99 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  thought  Hannah,  half  laughing, 
half  crying.  "  He  must  think  me  a  perfect  virago.  I  will 
apologize  the  minute  he  comes  back," 

But  he  did  not  come  back :  not  though  she  waited  an 
hour  in  the  breakfast-room,  putting  off  her  household  du- 
ties, and  even  that  other,  as  painful  as  it  was  inevitable — 
speaking  to  poor  Grace.  But  he  never  came.  Then,  go- 
ing into  the  hall,  she  saw  that  his  hat  and  coat  had  van- 
ished. She  knew  his  appointments  of  the  morning,  and 
was  sure  now  that  he  was  gone,  and  w^ould  be  away  the 
whole  day. 

Then  Hannah  became  more  than  perplexed — thoroughly 
unhappy.  Even  Grace's  forlorn  face,  when  she  told  her — 
she  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  more — that  Mr.  Rivers  could 
promise  nothing,  but  that  she  hoped  he  would  prevent  the 
marriage,  if  possible,  failed  to  affect  her  much ;  and  Rosie's 
little  arms  round  her  neck,  and  the  fond  murmur  of  "  Tan- 
nic, Tannic,"  did  not  give  nearly  the  comfort  that  they 
were  wont  to  do. 

"Tannic  has  been  naughty,''  said  she,  feeling  a  strange  re- 
lief in  confessing  her  sins  to  the  unconscious  child.  "  Tan- 
nic has  vexed  papa.  When  Rosie  grows  up  she  must  never 
vex  papa.  She  must  try  to  be  a  comfort  to  him :  he  has 
no  one  else." 

Poor  Hannah  !  She  had  done  wrong,  and  she  knew  it. 
When  this  w^as  the  case,  nothing  and  nobody  could  soothe 
Hannah  Thelluson. 

With  a  heavy  heart  she  got  ready  for  the  picnic — a  fam- 
ily affair  between  this  house  and  the  Moat  House,  which 
was  still  full  of  visitors.  The  girls  were  to  fetch  first  their 
brother  from  the  school-house,  and  then  herself;  but  when 
the  carriage  came  round  Mr.  Rivers  was  not  in  it. 

"Bernard  is  thoroughly  sulky  to-day,"  said  the  eldest 
sister.  "  He  doesn't  seem  to  know  his  own  mind  at  all, 
whether  he  will  go  or  won't ;  but  perhaps  he  may  turn  up 
by-and-by.  Don't  let  us  bother  about  him.  Such  a  splen- 
did day  it  is  for  a  picnic,  and  Langmead  Wood  at  its  love- 
liest time  !     Do  let  us  enjoy  ourselves." 


100  HANNAH. 

They  did  enjoy  themselves,  and  certainly,  Hannah 
thought,  were  not  much  "  bothered "  by  their  brother's 
sulkiness,  or  afflicted  by  his  absence.  The  fraternal  bond 
is  so  free  and  easy  that,  except  in  cases  of  very  special 
affection,  brothers  and  sisters  can  speedily  console  them- 
selves with  somebody  else. 

But  with  herself  it  was  not  so.  She  thought  the  girls 
rather  heartless  in  missing  Bernard  so  little.  She  missed 
]iim  a  good  deal,  and  set  down  her  regrets  as  conscience- 
stings.  They  hindered  half  her  enjoyment  of  the  lovely 
wood,  just  putting  on  its  green  clothing,  full  of  primroses 
and  hyacinths,  and  nest-building  birds  pouring  out  on  all 
sides  a  rapture  of  spring-time  song.  She  scarcely  heard 
it,  or  hearing  it  only  gave  her  pain. 

"  I  was  unkind  to  him,"  she  thought ;  "  unkind  to  a  man 
whose  wife  is  dead,  who  goes  lonely  through  the  world, 
and  needs  every  allowance  that  can  be  made  for  him,  every 
comfort  that  can  be  given  him.  He,  too,  who  is  always 
so  considerate  and  kind  to  me !  How  ungrateful  I  have 
been  I" 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  her  contrition  that  she  did  not 
notice  for  ever  so  long  what  otherwise  would  have  inter- 
ested her  much — a  very  patent  love-affair  now  going  on 
between  Adeline  Rivers  and  this  same  Mr.  Melville,  the 
young  squire  whom  Grace  had  mentioned.  To  bring  him 
"to  the  point,"  as  one  of  the  girls  confidentially  told  her, 
this  picnic  had  been  planned,  hoping  that  the  tender  influ- 
ence of  the  woody  glades  of  Langmead  would  open  his 
heart,  and  turn  it  from  nebulous  courtship  to  substantial 
marriage — a  marriage  evidently  highly  acceptable  to  the 
whole  family.  Which  Hannah  thought  rather  odd,  con- 
sidering what  she  knew  of  the  family  opinions,  and  that  it 
was  but  the  mere  chance  of  a  marriage  happening  before 
instead  of  after  the  year  1835  which  saved  Herbert  Mel- 
ville from  being  in  the  same  position  as  poor  Grace's  son — 
a  "  base-born  "  child. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Bernard  appeared.  They  were  all 
sitting  in  a  circle  round  the  remnants  of  the  dinner.     He 


HANKAH.  101 

shook  hands  with  every  body,  ending  with  Miss  Thelluson. 
Words  were  impossible  there ;  but  Hannah  tried  to  make 
her  eyes  say,  "Are  we  friends  ?  I  am  so  sorry."  The 
apology  fell  hopeless:  he  was  looking  in  another  direc- 
tion ;  and  she  shrank  back  into  herself,  feeling  more  un- 
happy, in  a  foolish,  causeless,  childish  sort  of  way,  than 
she  remembered  to  have  done  for  at  least  ten  years. 

If 

**To  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain," 

to  be  wroth  with  ourselves  for  having  wronged  one  we 
love  is  pretty  nearly  as  bad ;  except  that  in  such  a  case 
we  are  able  to  punish  ourselves  unlimitedly,  as  Hannah 
did,  with  the  most  laudable  pertinacity,  for  a  full  hour. 
She  listened  with  patience  to  endless  discussions,  tete-d-tete^ 
among  Lady  Rivers  and  her  girls,  upon  the  chances  and 
prospects  of  the  young  couple  for  whose  benefit  the  picnic 
was  made — who,  poor  things,  knew  well  what  they  were 
brought  there  for,  and  what  was  expected  of  them  before 
returning  home.  At  any  other  time  she  would  have  pit- 
ied or  smiled  at  this  pair  of  lovers,  who  finally  slipped 
aside  among  the  trees,  out  of  sight,  though  not  out  of 
comment,  of  their  affectionate  families;  and  she  might 
have  felt  half  amused,  half  indignant,  at  the  cool,  public 
way  in  which  the  whole  matter  was  discussed.  But  now 
her  heart  was  too  sore  and  sad ;  she  just  listened  politely 
to  every  body  that  wanted  a  listener,  and  meantime  heard 
painfully  every  word  her  brother-in-law  said,  and  saw 
every  movement  he  made — not  one,  however,  in  her  direc- 
tion. She  made  a  martyr  of  herself,  did  every  thing  she 
did  not  care  to  do,  and  omitted  the  only  thing  she  longed 
to  do — to  go  up  straight  to  Mr.  Rivers  and  say,  "Are  you 
angry  with  me  still?  Do  you  never  mean  to  forgive 
me?" 

Apparently  not,  for  he  kept  sedulously  out  of  her  way, 
and  yet  near  her,  though  not  a  word  between  them  was 
possible.  This  behavior  at  last  tantalized  her  so  much 
that  she  fairly  ran  away :  stole  quietly  out  of  the  circle, 


102  IIANNAU. 

and  hid  herself  in  a  nut-wood  dell,  filling  her  hands  with 
blue  hyacinths. 

"  Hannah,  what  are  you  doing  ?" 
"  Gathering  a  nosegay  to  take  home  to  Rosie." 
A  brief  question  and  answer.     Yet  they  seemed  to  clear 
away  the  cloud.     Mr.  Rivers  stood  watching  a  little  while,, 
and  then  began  helping  her  to  gather  the  flowers. 

"  How  continually  you  think  of  Rosie's  pleasure.  But  you 
do  of  every  body's.  What  a  warm,  good  heart  you  have  !" 
"  Have  I  ?  I  doubt  it,"  answered  Hannah,  with  a  falter- 
ing voice ;  for  she  was  touched  by  his  gentleness,  by  that 
wonderfully  sweet  nature  he  had — so  rare  in  a  man,  yet 
not  unmanly,  if  men  could  only  believe  this !  Hannah  had 
long  ceased  to  wonder  why  her  brother-in-law  was  so  uni- 
versally beloved. 

"  I  think  you  and  I  rather  quarreled  this  morning.  Aunt 
Hannah  ?    We  never  did'  so  before,  did  we  ?" 
"No." 

"  Then  don't  let  us  do  it  again.     Here  is  my  hand." 
Hannah  took  it  joyfully,  tried  to  speak,  and  signally 
failed. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  crying  ?" 
"  I  am  afraid  I  am.  It  is  very  silly,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
I  never  Avas  used  to  quarreling,  and  I  have  been  quite  un- 
happy all  day.  You  see  " — and  she  raised  her  face  with 
the  innocent  childlike  expression  it  sometimes  wore,  more 
childlike,  he  once  told  her,  than  any  creature  he  ever  saw 
over  ten  years  old — "  you  see,  I  had  behaved  so  ill  to  you 
— you  that  are  unfailingly  kind  to  me." 

"  Not  kind — say  grateful.  Oh,  Hannah  !"  he  said,  with 
great  earnestness, "  I  owe  you  more,  much  more,  than  I 
can  ever  repay.  I  was  sinking  into  a  perfect  slough  of 
despond,  becoming  a  miserable,  useless  wretch,  a  torment 
to  myself  and  every  body  about  me,  when  it  came  into  my 
head  to  send  for  you.  You  roused  me ;  you  made  me  feel 
that  my  life  was  not  ended;  that  I  had  still  work  to  do, 
and  strength  to  do  it  with.  Hannah,  if  any  human  being 
ever  saved  another,  you  saved  me." 


HANNAH.  103 

Hannah  was  much  moved.  Still  more  so  when,  droop- 
ing his  head,  and  playing  absently  with  a  mass  of  dead 
leaves,  from  under  which  blue  violets  were  springing,  he 
added, 

"  I  sometimes  think  she  must  have  sent  you  to  me — do 
you  ?" 

"  I  think  thus  much — that  she  would  rejoice  if  I,  or  any 
one,  was  able  to  do  you  any  good.  Any  generous  woman 
would,  after  she  had  gone  away,  and  could  do  you  good 
no  more.  She  would  wish  you  to  be  happy — even  if  it 
were  with  another  woman — another  wife." 

Hannah  said  this  carefully,  deliberately ;  she  had  long 
waited  for  a  chance  of  "saying  it,  that  he  might  know  ex- 
actly what  was  her  feeling  about  second  marriages,  did 
he  contemplate  any  thing  of  the  sort.  He  evidently 
caught  her  meaning,  and  was  pained  by  it. 

"Thank  you.  Rosa  said  much  the  same  thing  to  me 
just  before  she  died.  But  I  have  no  intention  of  marrying 
again.     At  least  not  now." 

Hannah  could  not  tell  why,  but  she  felt  relieved — even 
glad.  The  incubus  of  several  weeks  was  taken  off  at  once, 
as  well  as  that  other  burden,  which  she  had  no  idea  would 
have  weighed  her  down  so  much — the  feeling  of  being  at 
variance  with  her  brother-in-law. 

He  sat  down  beside  her  on  a  felled  log,  and  they  began 
talking  of  all  sorts  of  things — the  beauty  of  the  wood,  the 
wonderfully  delicious  spring  day;  and  how  Eosie  would 
have  enjoyed  it ;  how  she  would  enjoy  it  by-and-by,  when 
she  was  old  enough  to  be  brought  to  picnics  at  Langmead. 
All  trivial  subjects,  lightly  and  gayly  discussed ;  but  they 
were  straws  to  show  how  the  wind  blew,  and  Hannah  was 
sure  now  that  the  wind  blew  fair  again — that  Mr.  Rivers 
had  forgiven  and  forgotten  every  thing. 

N^ot  every  thing ;  for  he  asked  suddenly  if  she  had  told 
Grace  the  bitter  truth,  and  how  she  bore  it. 

"  Patiently,  of  course ;  but  she  is  nearly  broken-hearted." 

"  Poor  soul !  And  you  think,  Hannah,  that  if  she — 
Rosa — had  been  here,  she  would  have  let  Grace  stay  ?" 


104  HANNAH. 

"I  am  sure  she  would.  She  was  so  just,  so  pure,  so 
large  in  all  her  judgments;  she  would  have  seen  at  once 
that  Grace  meant  no  harm — that  no  real  guilt  could  at- 
tach to  her,  only  misfortune  ;  and,  therefore,  it  was  neither 
necessary  nor  right  to  send  her  away." 

"Very  well.  I  came  to  tell  you  that  she  shall  not  be 
sent  away.  I  have  reconsidered  the  question,  and  am  pre- 
pared to  risk  all  the  consequences  of  keeping  her — for  my 
little  girl's  sake  and  yours." 

Hannah  burst  into  broken  thanks,  and  then  fairly  be- 
gan to  cry  again.  She  could  not  tell  what  was  the  matter 
with  her.  Her  joy  was  as  silly  and  weak-minded  as  her 
sorrow.  She  was  so  ashamed  of  herself  as  to  be  almost  re- 
lieved when  Mr.  Rivers,  laughing  at  her  in  a  kindly,  pleas- 
ant way,  rose  up  and  rejoined  his  sisters. 

The  rest  of  the  day  she  had  scarcely  ten  words  with 
him,  yet  she  felt  as  happy  as  possible.  Peace  was  restored 
between  him  and  herself,  and  Grace's  misery  was  lighten- 
ed a  little,  though,  alas !  not  much.  Perhaps,  since  even 
her  master  said  she  had  done  no  intentional  wrong,  the 
poor  girl  would  get  used  to  her  lot  in  time.  It  could  not 
be  a  very  dreary  lot — to  take  care  of  Rosie.  And  Aunt 
Hannah  longed  for  her  little  darling — wished  she  had  her 
in  her  arms,  to  show  her  the  heaps  of  spring  flowers,  and 
the  rabbits  with  their  funny  flashes  of  white  tails,  appear- 
ing and  disappearing  beneath  the  tender  ferns  that  were 
shooting  up  under  the  dead  leaves  of  last  year — life  out  of 
death,  joy  out  of  sorrow,  as  God  meant  it  to  be. 

Nay,  even  the  Rivers  family  and  the  rest  seemed  to  drop 
a  little  of  their  formal  worldliness,  and  become  young  men 
and  maidens,  rejoicing  in  the  spring.  Especially  the  well- 
watched  pair  of  lovers,  who  had  evidently  come  to  an  un- 
derstanding, as  desired ;  for  when,  after  a  lengthy  absence, 
they  reappeared,  bringing  two  small  sticks  apiece,  as  their 
contributions  to  the  fire  that  was  to  boil  the  kettle,  their 
shyness  and  awkwardness  were  only  equaled  by  their  ex- 
pression of  blushing  content. 

Why  should  not  old  maid  Hannah  be  content  likewise, 


HANNAH.  105 

though  she  was  not  in  her  teens  like  Adeline,  and  had  no 
lover  ?  But  she  had  a  tender  feeling  about  lovers  still ; 
and  in  this  blithe  and  happy  spring-time  it  stirred  afresh, 
and  her  heart  was  moved  in  a  strange  sort  of  way — half 
pleasant,  half  sad. 

Besides,  this  day  happened  to  be  an  anniversary.  Not 
that  Hannah  was  among  those  who  keep  anniversaries; 
on  the  contrary,  she  carefully  avoided  them ;  but  she  nev- 
er forgot  them.  Many  a  time,  when  nobody  knew,  she 
was  living  over  again,  with  an  ineffaced  and  ineffaceable 
vividness,  certain  days  and  certain  hours  burned  into  her 
memory  with  the  red-hot  iron  of  affliction.  The  wounds 
had  healed  over,  but  the  scars  remained.  For  years  she 
had  never  seen  yellow  November  fogs  without  recalling 
the  day  when  Arthur  sailed ;  nor  cowslips,  but  she  remem- 
bered having  a  bunch  of  them  in  her  hand  when  she  got 
the  letter  telling  her  of  his  death,  just  as  he  was  "  getting 
up  May  Hill,"  as  they  often  say  of  consumptive  people. 
And  for  years — oh,  how  many  years  it  seemed  ! — after  that 
day  spring  days  had  given  her  a  cruel  pain ;  as  if  the 
world  had  all  come  alive  again,  and  Arthur  was  dead. 

To-day,  even  though  it  was  the  very  anniversary  of  his 
death,  she  felt  differently.  There  came  back  into  her  heart 
that  long-forgotten  sense  of  spring,  which  always  used  to 
come  with  the  primroses  and  cowslips,  when  Arthur  and 
she  played  together  among  them.  The  world  had  come 
alive  again,  and  Arthur  had  come  alive  too,  but  more  as 
when  he  was  a  little  boy  and  her  playfellow  than  her 
lover.  A  strange  kind  of  fancy  entered  her  mind — a  won- 
der what  he  was  like  now — boy,  or  man,  or  angel ;  and 
what  he  was  doing  in  that  land,  which,  try  as  we  will,  we 
can  not  realize,  and  are  not  meant  to  realize,  in  any  way 
that  would  narrow  our  duties  here.  Whether  he  still  re- 
mained the  same,  or  had  altered,  as  she  was  conscious  she 
had  altered ;  grown  as  she  had  grown,  and  suffered ;  no, 
he  could  not  suffer  as  she  had  suffered  these  ten,  eleven 
years.  Did  he  want  her  ?  or  was  he  happy  without  her  ? 
Would  they,  when  they  met,  meet  as  betrothed  lovers,-  or 

E2 


106  HANNAH. 

as  the  angels  in  heaven,  "  who  neither  marry  nor  are  given 
in  marriage  ?" 

All  those  thoughts,  and  many  more,  went  flitting  across 
her  mind  as  Miss  Thelluson  sat  in  a  place  she  often  took — 
it  saved  talking,  and  she  liked  it — beside  the  old  coach- 
man on  the  Moat  House  carriage,  as  they  drove  in  the  soft 
May  twilight,  through  glade  and  woodland,  moor  and 
down,  to  Easterham  village.  And,  when  far  off,  she  saw 
the  light  shining  from  a  window  of  the  House  on  the  Hill, 
her  heart  leaped  to  it — her  heart,  not  her  fancy — for  there 
was  her  warm,  happy,  human  home.  There,  under  that 
peaceful  roof,  centred  all  her  duties,  all  her  delights; 
there,  in  the  quiet  nursery,  little  Rosie  lay  sleeping,  ready 
to  wake  up  next  morning  fresh  as  the  flowers,  merry  as  a 
young  lambkin,  developing  more  and  more  in  her  opening 
child-life — the  most  wonderful  and  lovely  sight  God  ever 
gives  us,  and  he  gives  it  us  every  day — a  growing  human 
soul. 

"  Oh,  if  Rosa  could  only  see  her  now — the  daughter  for 
whom  she  died !"  sighed  Hannah ;  and  then  suppressed  the 
sigh  as  irreligious,  unjust.  "  No.  I  think  if  Rosa  came 
back  to  us,  and  saw  us  now — him  and  her  baby,  and  me — 
she  would  not  be  unhappy.  She  would  say — what  I  should 
say  myself,  if  I  died — that  when  God  takes  our  dead  from 
us,  he  means  us  not  to  grieve  forever,  only  to  remember." 


CHAPTER  yi. 

Hannah  was  fond  of  the  Moat  House ;  in  the  way  that 
we  are  often  fond  of  people  thrown  temporarily  in  our 
way,  thinking,  "  I  should  like  you  if  I  knew  you,"  but  well 
aware  that  this  will  never  happen.  Often,  as  in  her  walks 
she  passed  by  the  gray  old  walls,  she  could  quite  under- 
stand Mr.  Rivers's  strong  clinging  to  the  only  home  he 
ever  knew,  the  resting-place  of  his  family  for  generations. 
She  sympathized  keenly  in  his  admiration  for  its  quaint 


HANNAH.  107 

nooks  and  corners  within — its  quainter  aspect  without ; 
for  the  moat  had  been  drained,  and  turned  into  a  terraced 
garden,  and  the  old  draw-bridge  into  a  bridge  leading  to 
it ;  so  that  it  was  the  most  original  and  interesting  house 
possible. 

Miss  Thelluson  would  have  gone  there  often,  but  for  a 
conviction  that  its  inhabitants  did  not  approve  of  this. 
Wide  as  their  circle  was,  and  endless  as  were  their  enter- 
tainments, it  was  not  what  Hannah  called  a  hospitable 
house.  That  is,  it  opened  its  doors  wide  at  stated  times ; 
gave  the  most  splendid  dinners  and  balls ;  but  if  you  went 
in  accidentally  or  uninvited,  you  were  received  both  by 
the  family  and  servants  with  civil  surprise.  Hannah  was 
once  calling  of  an  evening  after  an  early  dinner,  when  the 
effort  to  get  her  an  egg  to  her  tea  seemed  to  throw  the 
whole  establishment,  from  the  butler  downward,  into  such 
dire  confusion  that  she  never  owned  to  being  "  hungry " 
at  the  Moat  House  again. 

Nor  was  it  a  place  to  bring  a  child  to.  Rosie,  always 
good  at  home,  was  sure  to  be  naughty  at  the  Moat  House ; 
and  then  grandmamma  and  aunts  always  told  p^ipa  of  it, 
and  papa  came  back  and  complained  to  Aunt  Hannah ; 
and  Aunt  Hannah  was  sometimes  sorry,  sometimes  indig- 
nant. So  the  end  was  that  she  and  the  child  never  went 
there  unless  specially  invited ;  and  that  paradise  of  most 
little  people — "grandmamma's  house"  and  "grandmam- 
ma's garden  " — was  to  Rosie  Rivers  a  perfect  blank. 

Nevertheless,  Aunt  Hannah  never  looked  at  the  lovely 
old  house  without  a  sense  of  tender  regret:  for  it  was 
so  very  lovely,  and  might  have  been  so  dear.  Perhaps 
it  would  be,  one  day,  when  Rosie,  its  heir's  sole  heiress, 
reigned  as  mistress  there.  A  change  which  another  ten 
or  fifteen  years  were  likely  enough  to  bring  about,  as  Sir 
Austin  was  an  old  man,  and  young  Austin,  the  hapless 
eldest  son,  would  never  inherit  any  thing.  Every  body 
knew,  though  nobody  said  it,  that  the  Reverend  Bernard 
Rivers  would  be  in  reality  his  father's  successor.  Even 
Lady  Rivers,  who  was  a  rich  young  widow  wlien  she  be- 


108  HANNAH. 

came  Sir  Austin's  wife,  and  had  a  comfortaLle  jointure 
house  in  another  county,  openly  referred  to  that  time,  and 
as  openly  regretted  that  her  step-son  did  not  turn  his 
thoughts  to  a  second  marriage. 

"But  he  will  soon,  of  course;  and  you  ought  to  take 
every  opportunity  of  suggesting  it  to  him.  Miss  Thellu- 
son ;  for,  in  his  position,  it  is  really  his  duty,  and  he  says 
one  of  the  great  advantages  you  are  to  him  is  that  you  al- 
ways keep  him  up  to  his  duty." 

To  these  remarks  Hannah  seldom  answered  more  than 
a  polite  smile.  She  made  a  point  of  never  discussing  Mr. 
Rivers's  marriage ;  first,  because  if  his  family  had  no  deli- 
cacy on  the  subject,  she  had ;  and  second,  because  every 
day  convinced  her  more  and  more  that  he  was  sincere 
when  he  told  her  he  had  no  present  intention  of  the  kind. 

Yet  he  was  perfectly  cheerful  now — not  exactly  in  his 
old  buoyant  fashion,  but  in  a  contented,  equable  way,  that 
Hannah,  at  least,  liked  much  better.  Theirs  was  a  cheer- 
ful house,  too.  "  Use  hospitality  without  grudging  "  was 
Bernard's  motto ;  and  he  used  it,  as  she  once  suggested  to 
him,  principally  to  those  "  who  can  not  repay  thee."  So 
the  House  on  the  Hill — the  clergyman's  house — was  sel- 
dom empty,  but  had  always  bed  and  board  at  the  service 
of  any  who  required  it  or  enjoyed  it.  Still  this  kind  of 
hospitality,  simple  as  it  was,  kept  Hannah  very  busy  al- 
ways. Not  that  she  objected  to  it — nay,  she  rather  liked 
it ;  it  roused  her  dormant  social  qualities,  made  her  talk 
more  and  look  brighter  and  better — indeed,  some  people 
congratulated  her  on  having  grown  ten  years  younger 
since  she  came  to  Easterham.  She  felt  so  herself,  at  any 
rate. 

Besides  the  outside  cheerfulness  in  their  daily  life,  she 
and  her  brother-in-law,  since  their  quarrel  and  its  mak- 
ing-up,  seemed  to  have  got  on  together  better  than  ever. 
Her  mind  was  settled  on  the  marriage  question;  she 
dreaded  no  immediate  changes,  and  he  seemed  to  respect 
her  all  the  more  for  having  "  shown  fight "  on  the  ques- 
tion of  Grace  Dixon — alas !  Mrs.  Dixon  no  longer  now — 


HANNAH.  109 

she  took  off  her  wedding-ring,  and  was  called  plain  Grace ; 
she  had  no  right  to  any  other  name. 

"  And  my  boy  has  no  name  either,"  she  said  once,  with 
a  pale,  patient  face,  when,  the  worst  of  her  sorrow  having 
spent  itself,  she  went  about  her  duties,  outwardly  re- 
signed. 

"IN'ever  mind!"  Hannah  replied,  with  a  choke  in  her 
throat.  "He  must  make  himself  one."  And  then  they 
laid  the  subject  aside,  and  discussed  it  no  more. 

Neither  did  she  and  her  brother-in-law  open  it  up  again, 
It  was  one  of  the  sore  inevitables,  the  painful  awkward- 
nesses, best  not  talked  about.  In  truth — in  the  position 
in  which  she  and  Mr.  Rivers  stood  to  one  another — how 
could  they  talk  about  it  ? 

The  Rivers  family  did  sometimes ;  they  had  a  genius  for 
discussing  unpleasant  topics.  But  happily  the  approach- 
ing marriage  of  Mr.  Melville  and  Adeline  annihilated  this 
one. 

"Under  the  circumstances  nobody  could  speak  to  him 
abaut  it,  you  know ;  it  might  hurt  his  feelings,"  said  the 
happy  bride  elect.  "  And  pray  keep  Grace  out  of  his  way, 
for  he  knows  her  well ;  she  was  brought  up  in  his  family. 
A  very  nice  family,  are  they  not  ?" 

Hannah  allowed  they  were.  She  sometimes  watched 
the  dowager  Mrs.  Melville  among  her  tribe  of  step-daugh- 
ters, whom  she  had  brought  up,  and  who  returned  her 
care  with  unwonted  tenderness,  thought  of  poor  Grace, 
and — sighed. 

Adeline's  marriage  was  carried  out  without  delay.  It 
seemed  a  great  satisfaction  to  every  body,  and  a  relief  like- 
wise. Young  Mr.  Melville,  who  was  rather  of  a  butterfly 
temperament,  had  fluttered  about  this  nosegay  of  pretty 
girls  for  the  last  ten  years.  He  had,  in  fact,  loved  through 
the  family,  beginning  with  the  eldest,  when  they  were 
playfellows,  then  transferring  his  affections  to  Helen,  and 
being  supposed  to  receive  a  death-blow  on  her  engage- 
ment ;  which,  however,  he  sjDeedily  recovered,  to  carry  on 
a  long  flirtation  with  the  handsome  Bertha;  finally,  to 


110  HANNAH. 

every  body's  wonder,  he  settled  down  to  Adeline,  who  was 
the  quietest,  the  least  pretty,  and  the  only  one  out  of  the 
four  who  really  loved  him. 

Bertha  was  vexed  at  first,  but  soon  took  consolation. 
"  After  all,  I  only  cared  to  flirt  with  him,  and  I  can  do  it 
just  as  well  when  he  is  my  brother-in-law.  Brothers  are 
so  stupid;  but  a  brother-in-law,  of  one's  own  age,  will  be 
so  very  convenient.     Miss  Thelluson,  don't  you  find  it  so  ?" 

Hannah  scarcely  answered  this — one  of  the  many  odd 
things  which  she  often  heard  said  at  the  Moat  House. 
However,  she  did  not  consider  it  her  province  to  notice 
them.  The  Ri verses  were  Bernard's  "  people,'^  as  he  af- 
fectionately called  them,  and  his  loving  eye  saw  all  their 
faults  very  small,  and  their  virtues  very  large.  Hannah 
tried,  for  his  sake,  to  do  the  same.  Only,  the  better  she 
knew  them  the  more  she  determined  on  one  thing — to 
hold  firmly  to  her  point,  that  she,  and  she  alone,  should 
have  the  bringing  up  of  little  Rosie. 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  think  me  very  conceited,"  she  said 
one  night  to  Rosie's  father — the  winter  evenings  were 
drawing  in  again,  and  they  were  sitting  together  talking, 
in  that  peaceful  hour  after  "  the  children  are  asleep " — 
"  but  I  do  believe  that  I,  her  mother's  sister,  can  bring  up 
Rosie  better  than  any  body  else.  First,  because  I  love 
her  best,  she  being  of  my  own  blood ;  secondly,  because 
not  all  women,  not  even  all  mothers,  have  the  real  moth- 
erly heart.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  story  I  heard  to-day,  and 
Lady  Rivers  instanced  it  as  '  right  discipline  ?'  But  it  is 
only  a  baby  story ;  it  may  weary  you." 

"Nothing  ever  wearies  me  that  concerns  Rosie — and 
you." 

"Well,  then,  there  is  an  Easterham  lady — you  meet  her 
often  at  dinner-parties — young  and  pretty,  and  capital  at 
talking  of  maternal  duties.  She  has  a  little  girl  of  six,  and 
the  little  girl  did  wrong  in  some  small  way,  and  was  told 
to  say  she  was  sorry.  '  I  have  said  it,  mamma,  seventy 
times  seven — to  myself.'  (A  queer  speech ;  but  children 
do  say  such  qu^er  things  sometimes;  Rosie  does  already.) 


HANNAH.  Ill 

*  But  you  must  say  it  to  me,'  said  mamma.  '  I  won't,'  said 
the  child.  And  then  the  mother  stood,  beating  and  shak- 
ing her,  at  intervals,  for  nearly  an  hour.  At  last  the  little 
thing  fell  into  convulsions  of  sobbing.  'Fetch  me  the 
water-jug,  and  I'll  pour  it  over  her.'  (Which  she  did,  wet- 
ting her  through.)  '  This  is  the  way  I  conquer  my  chil- 
dren.' Now,"  said  Hannah  Thelluson,  with  flashing  eyes, 
"if  any  strange  woman  were  ever  to  try  to  conquer  my 
child—" 

"  Keep  yourself  quiet,  Hannah,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  half 
smiling,  and  gently  patting  her  hand.  "  No  '  strange  wom- 
an '  shall  ever  interfere  between  you  and  Rosie." 

"And  you  will  promise  never  to  send  her  to  school  at 
Paris  or  anywhere  else,  as  Lady  Rivers  proposed  the  oth- 
er day,  when  she  is  old  enough?  Oh,  papa"  (she  some- 
times called  him  "  papa,"  as  a  compromise  between  "  Ber- 
nard," which  he  wished,  and  "Mr.  Rivers"),  "I  think  I 
should  go  frantic  if  any  body  were  to  take  my  child  away 
from  me." 

"Nobody  ever  shall,"  said  he,  earnestly  pressing  her 
hand,  which  he  had  not  yet  let  go.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
and  a  troubled  stirring  of  the  fire — his  habit  when  he  was 
perplexed — he  added,  "  Hannah,  do  you  ever  look  into  the 
future  at  all?" 

"  Rosie's  future  ?    Yes,  often." 

"No;  your  own." 

"  I  think — not  much,"  Hannah  replied,  after  slight  hesi- 
tation, and  trying  to  be  as  truthful  as  she  could.  "  When 
first  I  came  here  I  was  doubtful  how  our  plan  would  an- 
swer;  but  it  has  answered  admirably.  I  desire  no  change, 
I  am  only  too  happy  in  my  present  life." 

"  Perfectly  happy  ?    Are  you  quite  sure  ?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be." 

Yet  he  sighed,  and  very  soon  after  he  rose  with  some 
excuse  about  a  sermon  he  had  to  look  over;  went  into  his 
study,  whence,  contrary  to  his  custom,  he  did  not  emerge 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening:. 


112  HANNAH. 

Hannah  sat  alone,  and  rather  uncomfortable.  Had  she 
vexed  him  in  any  way  ?  Was  he  not  glad  she  declared 
herself  happy,  since,  of  necessity,  his  kindness  helped  to 
make  her  so  ?  For  months  now  there  had  never  come  a 
cloud  between  them.  Their  first  quarrel  was  also  their 
last.  By  this  time  they  had,  of  course,  grown  perfectly 
used  to  one  another's  ways;  their  life  flowed  on  in  its 
even  course  —  a  pleasant  river,  busy  as  it  was  smooth. 
Upon  its  surface  floated  peacefully  that  happy,  childish 
life,  developing  into  more  beauty  every  day.  Rosie  was 
not  exactly  a  baby  now;  and  often  when  she  trotted 
along  the  broad  garden  walk,  holding  tightly  papa's  hand 
on  one  side  and  auntie's  on  the  other,  there  came  into  H^in- 
nah's  mind  that  lovely  picture  of  Tennyson's : 

"And  in  their  double  love  secure 
The  little  maiden  walked  demure, 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure." 

That  was  the  picture  which  she  saw  in  a  vision,  and  had 
referred  to — why  had  it  vexed  the  father?  Did  he  think 
she  "spoiled"  Rosie?  But  love  never  spoils  any  child, 
and  Aunt  Hannah  could  be  stern  too,  if  necessary.  She 
made  as  few  laws  as  possible ;  but  those  she  did  make 
were  irrevocable,  and  Rosie  knew  this  already.  She  never 
cried  for  a  thing  twice  over — and,  oh,  how  touching  was 
her  trust,  how  patient  her  resigning  ! 

"I  don't  know  how  far  you  will  educate  your  little 
niece,"  wrote  Lady  Dunsmore,  in  the  early  days  of  Han- 
nah's willing  task ;  "  but  I  am  quite  certain  she  will  edu- 
cate you." 

So  she  did ;  and  Hannah  continually  watched  in  wonder 
the  little  new-born  soul,  growing  as  fast  as  the  body,  and 
spreading  out  its  wings  daily  in  farther  and  fairer  flights, 
learning,  she  knew  not  how,  more  things  than  she  had 
taught  it,  or  could  teach. 

Then  Rosie  comforted  her  aunt  so — with  the  same  sweet, 
dumb  comfort  that  Hannah  used  to  get  from  flowers  and 
birds  and  trees.     But  here  was  a  living  flower,  which  God 


HANNAH.  113 

had  given  her  to  train  up  into  beauty,  blessing  her  with 
twice  the  blessedness  she  gave.  In  all  her  little  household 
worries,  Rosie's  unconscious  and  perpetual  well-spring  of 
happiness  soothed  Hannah  indescribably,  and  never  more 
so  than  in  some  bitter  days  which  followed  that  day,  when 
Mr.  Rivers  seemed  to  have  suddenly  returned  to  his  own 
miserable  self,  and  to  be  dissatisfied  with  every  thing  and 
every  body. 

Even  herself.  She  could  not  guess  why;  but  sometimes 
her  brother-in-law  actually  scolded  her,  or,  what  was  worse, 
he  scolded  Rosie ;  quite  needlessly,  for  the  child  was  an  ex- 
ceedingly good  child.  And  then  Aunt  Hannah's  indigna- 
tion was  roused.  More  than  once  she  thought  of  giving 
him  a  severe  lecture,  as  she  had  occasionally  done  before, 
and  he  declared  it  did  him  good.  But  a  certain  diffidence 
restrained  her.  What  right,  indeed,  had  she  to  "  pitch  into 
him,"  as  he  had  laughingly  called  it,  when  they  were  no 
blood  relations  ? — if  blood  gives  the  right  of  fault-finding, 
which  some  people  suppose.  Good  friends,  as  she  and 
Mr.  Rivers  were,  Hannah  scrupled  to  claim  more  than  the 
rights  of  friendship,  which  scarcely  justify  a  lady  in  say- 
ing to  a  gentleman  in  his  own  house,  "You  are  growing 
a  perfect  bear,  and  I  would  much  rather  have  your  room 
than  your  company." 

Which  was  the  truth.  Just  now,  if  she  had  not  had  Ro- 
sie's nursery  to  take  refuge  in,  and  Rosie's  little  bosom  to 
fly  to,  burying  her  head  there  oftentimes,  and  drying  her 
wet  eyes  upon  the  baby  pinafore,  Aunt  Hannah  would  have 
had  a  sore  time  of  it. 

And  yet  she  was  so  sorry  for  him — so  sorry  !  If  the  old 
cloud  were  permanently  to  return,  what  should  she  do? 
What  possible  influence  had  she  over  him  ?  She  was  nei- 
ther his  mother  nor  sister,  if,  indeed,  either  of  those  ties 
permanently  affect  a  man  who  has  once  been  married,  and 
known  the  closest  sympathy,  the  strongest  influence  a  man 
can  know.  Many  a  time,  when  he  was  very  disagreeable, 
her  heart  sank  down  like  lead ;  she  would  carry  Rosie  sor- 
rowfully out  of  papa's  way,  lest  she  should  vex  him,  or  be 


114  HANNAH. 

made  naughty  by  him ;  conscious,  as  she  clasped  the  child 
to  her  bosom,  of  that  dangerous  feeling  which  men  some- 
times rouse  in  women — even  fathers  in  mothers — that 
their  children  are  much  pleasanter  company  than  them- 
*  selves. 

Poor  Bernard !  poor  Hannah !  Perhaps  the  former  should 
have  been  wiser,  the  latter  more  quick-sighted.  But  men 
are  not  always  Solons ;  and  Hannah  was  a  rather  peculiar 
sort  of  woman.  She  had  so  completely  taken  her  own 
measure,  and  settled  her  voluntary  destiny,  that  it  never 
occurred  to  her  she  was  not  quite  the  old  maid  she  thought 
herself,  or  that,  like  other  mortal  creatures,  her  lot,  as  well 
as  her  individuality,  was  liable  to  be  modified  by  circum- 
stances. When  Bernard  once  told  her  she  was  a  well-liked 
person,  growing  very  popular  at  Easterham,  she  smiled, 
rather  pleased  than  not ;  but  when  he  hinted  that  an  el- 
derly rector,  a  rich  widower,  who  had  lately  taken  to  vis- 
iting constantly  at  the  House  on  the  Hill,  did  not  visit 
there  on  his  account,  but  hers.  Miss  Thelluson  at  first 
looked  innocently  uncomprehending,  then  annoyed,  as  if 
her  brother-in-law  had  made  an  unseemly  jest.  He  never 
made  it  again.  And  soon  afterward,  either  from  her  ex- 
treme coldness  of  manner,  or  some  other  cause,  the  rector 
suddenly  vanished,  and  was  no  more  seen. 

Presently,  and  just  at  the  time  when  she  would  have 
been  most  glad  of  visitors  to  cheer  up  her  brother-in-law, 
their  house  seemed  to  grow  strangely  empty.  Invitations 
ceased,  even  those  at  the  Moat  House  being  fewer  and  more 
formal.  And  in  one  of  her  rare  visits  there  Lady  Rivers 
had  much  annoyed  her  by  dragging  in — apropos  of  Ade- 
line's marriage,  and  the  great  advantage  it  was  for  girls 
to  get  early  settled  in  life — a  pointed  allusion  to  the  afore- 
said rector,  and  his  persistent  attentions. 

"  Which,  of  course,  every  body  noticedj  my  dear.  Ev- 
ery body  notices  every  thing  in  Easterham.  And  allow 
me  to  say  that  if  he  does  mean  any  thing,  you  may  count 
on  my  best  wishes.  Indeed,!  think, all  things  considered, 
to  marry  him  would  be  the  very  best  thing  you  could  do." 


HANNAH.  115 

"  Thank  you ;  but  I  have  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
doing  it." 

"  Then  do  you  never  mean  to  marry  at  all  ?" 

"  Probably  not,"  replied  Hannah,  trying  hard  to  keep 
up  that  air  of  smiling  politeness,  which  she  had  hitherto 
found  as  repellent  as  a  crystal  wall  against  impertinent  in- 
trusiveness.  "  But,  really,  these  things  can  not  possibly 
interest  any  one  but  myself.  Not  even  benevolent  East- 
erham." 

"  Pardon  me.  Benevolent  Easterham  is  taking  far  too 
much  interest  in  the  matter,  and  in  yourself,  too,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,"  observed  Lady  Rivers,  mysteriously.  "  But, 
of  course,  it  is  no  business  of  mine." 

And  with  a  displeased  look  the  old  lady  disappeared 
to  other  guests,  giving  Hannah  unmistakably  "  the  cold 
shoulder  "  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening. 

This  did  not  afflict  her  much,  for  she  was  used  to  it. 
Of  far  greater  consequence  was  it  when,  a  little  while  af- 
ter, she  saw  by  Bernard's  looks  that  his  spirits  had  risen, 
and  he  was  almost  his  old  self  again.  It  always  pleased 
him  when  his  sister-in-law  was  invited  to  the  Moat  House, 
and  made  herself  agreeable  there,  as  she  resolutely  did. 
The  habit  of  accepting  a  man's  bread  and  salt,  and  then 
making  one's  self  disagreeable  in  the  eating  of  it,  or  abus- 
ing it  afterward,  was  a  phase  of  fashionable  morality  not 
yet  attained  to  by  Miss  Thelluson.  She  did  not  care  to 
visit  much ;  but  when  she  did  go  out,  she  enjoyed  herself 
as  much  as  possible. 

"  Yes,  it  has  been  a  very  pleasant  evening ;  quite  lively 
— for  the  Moat  House,"  she  would  have  added,  but  checked 
herself.  It  was  touching  to  see  Bernard's  innocent  admi- 
ration of  every  thing  at  the  Moat  House.  The  only  occa- 
sions when  it  vexed  her  was  when  they  showed  so  little 
appreciation  of  him. 

"  Oh,  why  can  he  not  always  be  as  good  as  he  is  to- 
night !"  thought  Hannah,  when,  as  they  walked  home  to- 
gether, which  they  did  sometimes  of  fine  evenings  instead 
of  ordering  the  carriage,  he  talked  pleasantly  and  cheer- 


116  HANNAH. 

fully  the  whole  way.  They  passed  through  the  silent, 
shut-up  village,  and  up  the  equally  silent  hill-road  to  the 
smooth  "down"  at  its  top.  There  the  extreme  quietness 
and  loneliness,  and  the  mysterious  beauty  of  the  frosty 
starlight,  seemed  to  soothe  him  into  a  more  earnest  mood, 
imparting  something  of  the  feeling  which  bright  winter 
nights  always  gave  to  Hannah — that  sense  of  nearness  to 
the  invisible  which  levels  all  human  griefs,  and  comforts 
all  mortal  pain. 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,"  said  he,  when  they  had  been  speak- 
ing on  this  subject,  "it  does  not  so  very  much  matter 
whether  one  is  happy  or  miserable  during  one's  short  life 
here ;  or  one  is  inclined  to  feel  so  on  a  night  like  this,  and 
talking  together  as  you  and  I  do  now.  The  only  thing  of 
moment  seems  to  be  to  have  patience  and  do  one's  duty." 

"  I  think  it  does  matter,"  Hannah  answered ;  but  gen- 
tly, so  as  not  to  frighten  away  the  good  angel  which  she 
rejoiced  to  see  returning.  "People  do  their  duty  much 
better  when  they  are  happy.  I  can  not  imagine  a  God 
who  could  accept  only  the  sacrifices  of  the  miserable.  We 
must  all  suffer,  less  or  more  ;  but  I  never  would  suffer  one 
whit  more,  or  longer,  than  I  could  help." 

"  Would  you  not  ?" 

"  No,  nor  would  I  make  others  suffer.  What  do  you 
think  the  child  said  to  me  yesterday,  when  I  was  removing 
her  playthings  at  bed-time  ?  I  suppose  I  looked  grave, 
for  she  said,  '  Poor  Tannic !  Isn't  Tannic  sorry  to  take 
away  Rosie's  toys  ?'  Tannic  was  sorry,  and  would  glad- 
ly have  given  them  all  back  again  if  she  could.  Don't 
you  think,"  and  Hannah  lifted  her  soft,  gray,  truthful  eyes 
to  the  winter  sky, "  that  if  Tannic  feels  thus,  so  surely  must 
God?" 

Mr.  Rivers  said  nothing ;  but  he  pressed  slightly  the 
arm  within  his,  and  they  walked  on,  taking  the  "  sweet 
counsel  together"  which  is  the  best  privilege  of  real 
friends.  It  was  like  old  days  come  back  again,  and  Han- 
nah felt  so  glad. 

"  Now  you  may  perceive,"  Bernard  said,  after  a  little, 


HANNAH.  117 

apropos  of  nothing,  "  why  the  charming  young  ladies  who 
come  about  my  sisters,  and  whom  they  think  I  don't  ad- 
mire half  enough,  do  not  attract  me  as  I  suppose  they 
ought  to  do.  They  might  have  don6  so  once,  before  I  had 
known  sorrow ;  but  now  they  seem  to  me  so  '  young,' 
shallow,  and  small.  One  half  of  me — the  deepest  half — 
they  never  touch ;  nor  do  my  own  people  either.  For  in- 
stance, the  things  we  have  been  talking  of  to-night  I  should 
never  dream  of  speaking  about  to  any  body — except  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Hannah,  gratified. 

Had  she  thought  herself  bound  to  tell  the  full  truth,  she 
might  have  confessed  that  there  was  a  time  when  she,  on 
her  part,  thought  Mr.  Rivers,  as  he  thought  these  girls, 
"  young,  shallow,  and  small."  She  did  not  now.  Either 
he  had  altered  very  much,  or  she  had  much  misjudged 
him.  Probably  both  was  the  case.  He  had  grown  older, 
graver,  more  earnest.  She  did  not  feel  the  least  like  his 
mother  now ;  he  was  often  much  wiser  than  she,  and  she 
gladly  owned  this.  It  would  have  relieved  her  honest 
mind  to  own  likewise  a  few  other  trifles  on  which  she  had 
been  egregiously  mistaken.  But  in  some  things,  and  es- 
pecially those  which  concerned  herself  and  her  own  feel- 
ings, Hannah  was  still  a  very  shy  woman. 

"  I^ot  that  I  have  a  word  to  say  against  those  charm- 
ing girls,"  continued  he,  relapsing  into  his  gay  mood.  No 
doubt  they  are  very  charming,  the  Misses  Melville  and  the 
rest. 

'*  *He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 
And  a  coral  lip  admires,' 

may  find  enough  to  admire  in  them.  Only — only — you 
remember  the  last  verse  ?"  And  he  repeated  it,  with  a 
tender  intonation  that  rather  surprised  Hannah — 

**  *But  a  true  and  constant  mind, 

Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 
Hearts  in  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires.' 

That  is  my  theory  of  loving — is  it  yours?" 


1 1 8  HANNAH. 

"  I  should  fancy  it  is  most  people's  who  have  ever  deep- 
ly thought  about  the  matter." 

"  Another  theory  I  have,  too,"  he  went  on,  apparently 
half  in  earnest,  half  In  jest, "  that  the  passion  comes  to 
different  people,  and  at  different  times  of  their  lives,  in 
very  contrary  ways.  Some  '  fall '  in  love  as  I  did,  at  first 
sight,  with  my  lost  darling" — he  paused  a  full  minute. 
"  Others  walk  into  love  deliberately,  with  their  eyes  open; 
while  a  few  creep  into  it  blindfold,  and  know  not  where 
they  are  going  till  the  bandage  drops,  and  then — " 

"And  which  of  these  do  you  suppose  was  the  case  of 
Adeline  and  Mr.  Melville  ?" 

"  Good  Heavens !  I  was  not  thinking  of  Adeline  and 
Mr.  Melville  at  all." 

He  spoke  with  such  needless  acerbity  that  Hannah  actu- 
ally laughed,  and  then  begged  his  pardon,  which  seemed 
to  offend  him  only  the  more.  She  did  not  know  how  to 
take  him,  his  moods  were  so  various  and  unaccountable. 
But  whatever  they  were,  or  whatever  he  was,  she  felt 
bound  to  put  up  with  him ;  nay,  she  was  happier  with 
him  in  any  mood  than  when  far  apart  from  him,  as  when 
he  had  held  himself  aloof  from  her  of  late. 

"  You  are  very  cross  to  me,"  said  she,  simply,  "  but  I  do 
not  mind  it.  I  know  you  have  many  things  to  vex  you; 
only  do  please  try  to  be  as  good  as  you  can.  And  you 
might  as  well  as  not  be  good  to  me." 

"  Be  good  to  you  !" 

"  Yes ;  for  though  I  may  vex  you  sometimes,  as  I 
seem  to  have  done  lately,  I  do  not  really  mean  any 
harm." 

"  Harm  !  Poor  Hannah  !  Why,  you  wouldn't  harm  a 
fly.  And  yet" — he  stopped  suddenly,  took  both  her 
hands,  and  looked  her  hard  in  the  face — "  there  are  times 
when  I  feel  as  if  I  hated  the  very  sight  of  you." 

Hannah  stood  aghast.  Such  unkind,  causelessly  unkind 
words!  Hate  her — why?  Because  she  reminded  him  of 
his  wife  ?  And  yet,  except  for  a  certain  occasional  "  fami- 
ly" look,  no  two  sisters  could  be  more  unlike  than  she  and 


HANNAH.  119 

Rosa.  Even  were  it  not  so,  what  a  silly,  nay,  cruel  reason 
for  disliking  her !  And  why  had  not  the  dislike  shown 
itself  months  ago,  when  he  seemed  to  prize  her  all  the 
more  for  belonging  to  the  departed  one,  whom  he  still 
fondly  called  his  "  lost  darling  ?" 

Miss  Thelluson  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  She  was 
first  startled  ;  then  inexpressibly  pained.  The  tears  came 
and  choked  her.  She  would  have  run  away  if  she  could ; 
but  as  she  could  not,  she  walked  on,  saying  nothing,  for 
she  literally  had  not  a  word  to  say. 

Mr.  Rivers  walked  after  her.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
have  spoken  wildly,  ridiculously.  You  must  forgive. 
You  see  I  am  not  such  a  calm,  even  temperament  as  you. 
Oh,  Hannah,  do  forgive  me.  I  did  not  mean  what  I  said 
— I  did  not,  indeed." 

"  What  did  you  mean,  then  ?" 

A  question  which  some  people,  well  versed  in  the  sci- 
ence which  Mr.  Rivers  had  just  been  so  eloquently  discuss- 
ing, may  consider  foolish  in  the  extreme,  showing  Hannah 
to  have  been,  not  merely  the  least  self-conscious,  but  the 
most  purblind  of  her  sex.  She  was  neither.  But  there 
are  natures  so  exceedingly  single-minded  and  straight-for- 
ward that  what  seems  to  them  not  a  right  or  fitting  thing 
to  be  done  they  no  more  think  of  doing  themselves,  or  of 
suspecting  others  of  doing,  than  of  performing  that  cele- 
brated feat  of  "jumping  over  the  moon."  Besides,  her 
idea  of  herself  was,  in  many  ways,  as  purely  imaginary  as 
her  idea  of  her  brother-in-law.  The  known,  notable  fact 
that  "  hate "  is  often  only  the  agonized  expression  of  a 
very  opposite  feeling  never  once  suggested  itself  to  the 
innocent  mind  of  Hannah  Thelluson. 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  their  own  gate.  Her 
hand  was  on  the  latch,  not  reluctantly.     He  took  it  off*. 

"Don't  go  in  —  not  just  this  moment,  when  you  are 
displeased  with  me.  The  night  is  so  fine,  and  there  is 
nobody  about."  (What  would  that  matter?  Hannah 
thought.)  "  Just  walk  a  few  steps  further,  while  I  say  to 
you  something  which  I  have  had  on  my  mind  to  say  for 


120  U  ANN  All. 

weeks  past :  a  message — no,  not  a  message,  but  a  sort  of 
commission  from  a  friend  of  mine." 

By  his  hesitation,  his  extreme  awkwardness  and  uncom- 
fortableness  of  manner,  Hannah  guessed  directly  what  it 
was.  "Et  tu.  Brute !"  she  could  have  bitterly  said,  re- 
membering the  annoyance  to  which  she  had  been  just  sub- 
jected by  Lady  Rivers,  whom  she  had  seen  afterward  in 
close  conclave  with  Bernard.  Had  he,  then,  been  enlisted 
on  the  same  side — of  the  obnoxious  rector?  Well,  what 
matter?     She  had  better  hear  all,  and  have  done  with  it. 

But  there  was  delay,  and  for  fully  ten  minutes ;  first  by 
Bernard's  silence,  out  of  which  she  was  determined  not  to 
help  him  in  the  least ;  and  secondly,  by  their  encountering 
a  couple  out  walking  like  themselves,  the  village  apothe- 
cary and  the  village  milliner — known  well  to  be  lovers — 
who  looked  equally  shy  at  being  met  by,  and  astonished 
at  meeting,  their  clergyman  and  his  sister-in-law  out  on 
the  hill  at  that  late  hour.  Mr.  Rivers  himself  looked 
much  vexed,  and  hastily  proposed  turning  homeward,  as 
if  forgetting  altogether  what  they  had  to  say,  till  they 
once  more  reached  the  gate. 

"  Just  one  turn  in  the  garden,  Hannah — I  must  deliver 
my  message,  and  do  my  duty,  as  Lady  Rivers  says  I  ought. 
I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added  formally ;  "  it  is  trenching 
on  delicate  ground ;  but  my  friend,  Mr.  Morecamb,  has 
asked  me  confidentially  to  tell  him  whether  you  have  any 
objection  to  his  visiting  our  house." 

"  Our  house  ?     Certainly  not." 

"  But  the  house  means  you — visits  paid  to  you  with  a 
certain  definite  end.  In  plain  terms,  he  wishes  to  marry 
you." 

"And  has  confided  that  intention  to  you,  and  to  all 
Easterham!  How  very  kind!  But  would  it  not  have 
been  kinder  to  put  the  question  to  me  himself,  instead  of 
making  it  public  through  a  third  party  ?" 

"  If  by  the  '  third  party '  you  mean  me,  I  assure  you  I 
was  no  willing  party;  and  also  that  I  have  sedulously 
kept  the  secret  forced  upon  mc.      Even  to-night,  when 


HANNAH.  121 

Lady  Rivers  was  questioning  me  on  the  subject,  I  was 
careful  not  to  let  her  suspect,  in  the  smallest  degree,  that 
there  was  any  foundation  for  the  report  beyond  Easter- 
ham  gossip  at  Morecamb's  frequent  visits.  I  kept  my  own 
counsel,  ay,  and  submitted  to  be  rated  roundly  for  my  in- 
difference to  your  interests,  and  told  that  I  was  hindering 
you  from  making  a  good  marriage.     Is  it  so  ?" 

"  You  ought  to  have  known  me  better  than  to  suppose 
I  should  ever  make  a  '  good '  marriage,  which  means,  in 
Lady  Rivers's  vocabulary,  a  marriage  of  convenience. 
She  is  very  kind  to  take  my  affairs  so  completely  into 
her  own  hands.  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  her — and  to 
you." 

The  tone  was  so  bitter  and  satirical,  so  unlike  herself, 
that  Bernard  turned  to  look  at  her  in  the  starlight — the 
pale,  pure  face,  neither  young  nor  old,  which,  he  some- 
times said,  never  would  be  either  younger  or  older,  be- 
cause no  wear  and  tear  of  human  passion  troubled  its  ce- 
lestial peace. 

"  I  have  offended  you,  I  see.    Can  it  be  possible  that — " 

"  ISTothing  is  impossible,  apparently.  But  I  should  have 
supposed  that  you  yourself  would  have  been  the  first  to 
put  down  all  remarks  of  this  kind ;  aware  that  it  was,  at 
least,  highly  improbable  I  could  have  any  feeling  con- 
cerning Mr.  Morecamb — unless  it  was  resentment  at  his 
having  made  me  a  public  talk  in  this  way." 

"He  could  not  help  it,  I  suppose." 

"He  ought  to  have  helped  it.  Any  man  who  really 
loves  a  woman  will  hide  her  under  a  bushel,  so  to  speak — - 
shelter  her  from  the  faintest  breath  of  gossip,  take  any 
trouble,  any  blame  even,  upon  himself,  rather  than  let  her 
be  talked  about.  At  least  that  is  how  I  should  feel  if  I 
were  a  man  and  loved  a  woman.  But  I  don't  understand 
you  men — less  and  less  the  more  I  know  of  you.  You 
seem  to  see  things  in  a  different  light,  and  live  after  a  dif- 
ferent pattern  from  what  we  women  do." 

"That  is  only  too  true — the  more  the  pity,"  said  Mr. 
Rivers,  sighing.     "  But  as  to  gossip :  the  man  might  not 

F 


122  HANNAH. 

be  able  to  prevent  it.  There  might  be  circumstances — 
What  do  you  think  Morecamb  ought  to  have  done  ?" 

Hannah  thought  a  moment.  "  He  should  have  held  his 
tongue  till  he  knew  his  own  mind  fully,  or  guessed  mine. 
Then  he  should  have  put  the  question  to  me  direct,  and  I 
would  have  answered  it  the  same,  and  also  held  my  tongue. 
Half  the  love-miseries  in  the  world  arise,  not  from  the  love 
itself,  but  from  people's  talking  about  it.  I  say  to  all  my 
young  friends  who  fall  in  love,  whether  happily  or  unhap- 
pily, *  Keep  it  to  yourself;  whatever  happens,  hold  your 
tongue.' " 

"  Oracular  advice — as  if  from  a  prophetess  superior  to 
all  these  human  weaknesses,"  said  Bernard,  bitterly.  "A 
pity  it  was  not  given  in  time  to  poor  Mr.  Morecamb. 
What  do  you  dislike  in  him — his  age?" 

"  No ;  it  is  generally  a  good  thing  for  the  man  to  be 
older  than  the  woman — even  much  older." 

"  His  being  a  widower,  then  ?" 

"  Not  at  all ;  but — "  and  Hannah  stopped,  as  indignant 
as  if  she  had  really  loved  Mr.  Morecamb.  That  her  broth- 
in-law  should  be  pleading  the  cause  of  a  gentleman  who 
wanted  to  marry  her,  or  that  any  gentleman  should  be 
wanting  to  marry  her,  seemed  equally  extraordinary.  She 
could  have  laughed  at  the  whole  matter  had  she  not  felt 
so  strangely,  absurdly  angry.  She  stood — twirling  her 
hands  in  and  out  of  her  muff,  and  patting  with  fierce  little 
feet  the  frosty  ground,  and  waited  for  Mr.  Rivers  to  speak 
next.     He  did  so  at  length,  very  formally. 

"I  have,  then,  to  convey  to  my  friend  a  simple  nega- 
tive, and  say  that  you  desire  his  visits  here  to  cease  ?" 

"  Not  if  he  is  your  friend,  and  you  wish  them  to  con- 
tinue. What  right  have  I  to  shut  the  door  upon  any  of 
your  guests  ?  My  position  is  most  awkward,  most  uncom- 
fortable. Why  did  not  you  spare  me  this  ?  If  you  had 
tried,  I  think — I  think  you  might." 

It  was  a  woman's  involuntary  outcry  of  pain,  an  appeal 
for  protection — until  she  remembered  she  was  making  it 
to  a  sham  protector ;  a  man  who  had  no  legal  rights  to- 


HANNAH.  123 

ward  het ;  who  was  neither  husband,  father,  nor  brother ; 
who,  though  she  was  living  under  his  roof,  could  not  shel- 
ter her  in  the  smallest  degree,  except  as  an  ordinary  friend. 
He  was  that,  anyhow,  for  he  burst  out  in  earnest  and  pas- 
sionate rejoinder : 

"  How  could  I  have  spared  you — only  tell  me  !  You 
talk  of  rights  —  what  right  had  I  to  prevent  the  man's 
seeking  you — to  stand  in  the  way  of  your  marrying,  as 
they  tell  me  I  do  ?  Oh,  Hannah !  if  you  knew  what  mis- 
apprehension, what  blame,  I  have  subjected  myself  to,  in 
all  these  weeks  of  silence !  And  yet  now  you — even  you 
— turn  round  and  accuse  me." 

"  I  accuse  you !" 

"  Well,  well,  perhaps  we  are  taking  a  too  tragical  view 
of  the  whole  matter.     You  do  not  quite  hate  me  ?" 

"  N'o  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  you  who  said  you  hated 
me." 

And  that  sudden  change  from  pathos  to  bathos,  from 
the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous,  which,  in  talk,  constantly 
takes  place  between  people  who  are  very  familiar  with 
one  another,  came  now  to  soothe  the  agitation  of  both. 

"  Let  us  make  a  paction,  for  it  will  never  do  to  have  an- 
other quarrel,  or  even  a  coolness,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  with 
that  bright,  pleasant  manner  of  his,  which  always  warmed 
Hannah  through  and  through  like  sunshine;  she  whose 
life  before  she  came  to  Easterham  had  been,  if  placid,  a 
little  sunless,  cold,  and  pale.  "  I  know,  whenever  you  tap 
your  foot  in  that  way,  it  is  a  sign  you  are  waxing  wroth. 
Presently  you  will  burst  out,  and  tear  me  limb  from  limb, 
as — allegorically  speaking — you  delight  to  do,  you  being 
a  '  big  lion,'  as  Rosie  says,  and  I  as  innocent  as  a  lamb 
the  whole  time." 

Hannah  laughed,  and  "  got  down  from  her  high  horse," 
as  he  used  to  call  it,  immediately.  She  always  did  when 
he  appealed  to  her  in  that  irresistibly  winning,  good-hu- 
mored way.  It  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  mysteries — the 
influence  one  human  being  has  over  another.  Oftener  than 
not  because   of  extreme  dissimilarity.      Upon  Hannah's 


124  han:j^ah. 

grave  and  silent  nature  the  very  youthfulness,  buoyant- 
ness,  and  frankness  of  this  young  man  came  with  a  charm 
and  freshness  which  she  never  found  in  grave,  silent,  mid- 
dle-aged people.  Even  his  face,  which  she  had  once  called 
too  handsome — uninterestingly  handsome — she  had  come 
to  look  at  with  a  tender  pride,  as  his  mother  (so  she  said 
to  herself  at  least)  might  have  done. 

"  Well,  papa,"  she  replied,  "  I  don't  know  whether  you 
are  a  lamb  or  a  lion,  but  you  are  without  doubt  the  sweet- 
est-tempered man  I  ever  knew.  It  is  a  blessing  to  live 
with  you,  as  Rosa  once  said." 

"Did  she  say  that?  poor  darling!  And — and  do  you 
think  it  ?  Oh,  Hannah !" — and  he  lifted  up  in  the  star- 
light a  suddenly  grave,  even  solemn  face — "  if  you  knew 
every  thing — if  she  were  looking  at  us  two  here — would 
she  not  say — I  am  sure  she  would — " 

But  the  sentence  was  never  ended ;  for  just  as  they  stood 
at  the  hall  door  a  scream  resounded  from  within — an  un- 
mistakable woman's  scream. 

"  That  is  Grace's  voice.  Oh,  my  baby !  my  baby  !"  cried 
Hannah,  and  darted  away,  Mr.  Rivers  following  her. 


CHAPTER  YH. 


No  harm  had  befallen  baby.  Hannah,  flying  up  stairs 
on  terror-winged  feet  that  carried  her  she  hardly  knew 
how,  found  her  treasure  all  safe,  lying  fast  asleep,  as 
warm  and  soft  as  a  little  bird  in  its  nest,  in  the  quiet 
nursery. 

Grace  was  not  there,  and  yet  it  was  certainly  Grace's 
voice  she  had  heard.  What  could  have  happened  ?  The 
uneasy  fear  that  some  time  or  other  something  uncomfort- 
able might  turn  up  concerning  Jem  Dixon  was  seldom  long ' 
absent  from  Hannah's  mind,  though  it  was  not  strong 
enough  to  take  away  the  comfort  she  had  in  her  intelli- 
gent and  faithful  nurse. 


HANNAH.  ,  12i> 

Of  course  the  whole  household,  as  well  as  every  house- 
hold  at  Easterham,  knew  Grace's  story.  In  such  a  small 
community  concealment  was  impossible,  even  had  Miss 
Thelluson  wished  it,  which  she  did  not.  She  had  a  great 
horror  of  secrets,  and,  besides,  she  felt  that  in  this  painful 
matter  perfect  openness  was  the  safest  course.  Therefore, 
both  to  her  servants  and  her  neighbors,  she  had  never  hesi- 
tated to  mention  the  thing,  telling  the  plain  story,  accept- 
ing it  as  an  inevitable  misfortune,  and  then  protecting 
Grace  to  the  utmost  by  her  influence — the  influence  which 
any  lady  can  use,  both  with  equals  and  inferiors,  when  she 
is,  like  Hannah,  quite  firm  in  her  own  mind,  and  equally 
fearless  in  expressing  it.  Whatever  people  said  behind 
her  back,  before  Hannah's  face  nobody  breathed  a  word 
against  the  poor  nurse,  who  cowered  gratefully  under  the 
shelter  of  her  mistress's  kindness,  and  kept  out  of  other 
people's  way  as  much  as  possible. 

In  her  class  broken  hearts  are  rare ;  working-women 
have  not  time  to  die  of  grief.  But  though  Grace  said  lit- 
tle or  nothing,  often  when  she  sat  sewing,  with  Rosie  play- 
ing at  her  feet,  Hannah  watched  with  pity  the  poor  sad 
face,  and  thought  of  the  blighted  life  which  nothing  could 
ever  restore.  For,  as  has  been  said,  Grace,  brought  up  as 
little  maid  to  the  Misses  Melville,  had  caught  from  them 
a  higher  tone  of  feeling  and  a  purer  morality,  in  great 
things  and  small,  than,  alas  !  is  usually  found  among  serv- 
ants ;  and  she  suffered  accordingly.  Her  shame,  if  shame 
it  could  be  called,  seemed  to  gnaw  into  her  very  heart. 
So  did  her  separation  from  the  children.  How  far  she 
grieved  for  their  father  could  not  be  guessed ;  she  never 
named  him,  and,  Hannah  was  certain,  saw  and  heard  noth- 
ing of  him.  But  that  scream,  and  a  slight  confusion  which 
was  audible  down  stairs,  convinced  her  that  something — 
probably  the  vague  something  she  always  feared — had 
happened :  James  Dixon  had  reappeared. 

She  went  down  stairs  and  found  it  so.  In  the  servants' 
hall,  the  centre  of  an  excited  group — some  frightened  at 
him,  some  making  game  of  him — stood  a  little,  ugly-look- 


120  HANNAH. 

ing  man,  half  drunk,  but  not  too  drunk  to  be  incapable  of 
taking  care  of  himself,  or  knowing  quite  well  what  he  was 
about.  He  held  Grace  tight  round  the  waist  with  one 
hand,  and  brandished  a  kitchen  carving-knife  with  the 
other,  daring  every  body  to  come  near  him,  which  nobody 
did,  until  Mr.  Kivers  walked  quietly  up  and  took  the  knife 
out  of  his  hand. 

"  James  Dixon,  what  business  have  you  in  my  house  at 
this  time  of  night  ?" 

"  I  want  my  missis.  I'm  come  to  fetch  my  missis,"  stam- 
mered the  man,  drunkenly,  still  keeping  hold  of  Grace,  in 
spite  of  her  violent  struggles  to  get  free. 

"  She  isn't  his  missis,"  cried  some  one  from  behind. 
"  Please,  Sir,  he  married  my  cousin,  Ann  Bridges,  only  two 
months  ago.     He's  always  a-marrying  somebody." 

"But  I  don't  like  Ann  Bridges,  now  I've  got  her.  She's 
forever  rating  at  me  and  beating  the  children ;  and  I'm  a 
fond  father,  as  doesn't  like  to  see  his  little  'uns  ill  used," 
added  Jem,  growing  maudlin.  "  So  I'd  rather  get  rid  of 
Ann,  and  take  Grace  back  again." 

When  he  spoke  of  the  children  Grace  had  given  a  great 
sob ;  but  now,  when  he  turned  to  her  his  red,  drunken  face, 
and  wanted  to  kiss  her,  she  shrank  from  him  in  disgust, 
and,  making  one  struggle,  wrenched  herself  free  and  dart- 
ed over  to  Mr.  Rivers. 

"  Oh,  please  save  me  !  I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  him. 
I  can't.  Sir,  you  know."  And  then  she  appealed  despair- 
ingly to  her  mistress.  "Did  you  hear  what  he  said? 
That  woman  beats  the  children ;  I  knew  she  would ;  and 
yet  I  can't  go  back.  Miss  Thelluson,  you  don't  think  I 
ought  to  go  back  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Hannah ;  and  then  her  brother-in- 
law  first  noticed  her  presence. 

"  Pray  go  away,"  he  whispered ;  "  this  is  not  a  place  for 
you.     See,  the  man  is  drunk." 

"I  do  not  mind,"  she  answered.  "Just  look  at  poor 
Grace.     We  must  save  her  from  him." 

For  Jem  had  again  caught  the  young  woman  in  his 


HANNAH.  127 

arms,  where  she  lay  half  fainting,  not  resisting  at  all,  evi- 
dently frightened  to  death. 

"  This  can  not  be  endured,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  angrily. 
"  Dixon,  be  off  v^^ith  you  !  Webb,  Jacob,  take  him  be- 
tween you  and  see  him  clear  out  of  the  gate." 

Butler  and  footman  advanced,  but  their  task  was  not 
easy.  Dixon  was  a  wiry  little  fellow,  sharp  as  a  ferret, 
even  in  his  cups.  He  wriggled  out  of  the  men's  grasp  im- 
mediately, and  tried  again  to  snatch  at  the  kitchen  knife. 

"  Hands  off,  mates ;  I'll  go  fast  enough.  It  isn't  much 
a  fellow  gets  in  this  house.  Grace  wouldn't  even  give  me 
a  drop  o'  beer.  I'll  be  off,  Mr.  Rivers ;  but  I'll  not  stir  a 
step  w^ithout  my  wife — that's  the  young  woman  there.  I 
married  her  in  church,  same  as  I  did  t'other  woman,  and  I 
like  her  the  best  o'  the  two ;  so  do  the  little  ones.  I 
promised  them  I'd  fetch  her  back.  You'll  come,  Grace, 
won't  you  ?  and  I'll  be  so  kind  to  you." 

"Oh,  Jem,  Jem!"  sobbed  poor  Grace,  melted  by  the 
coaxing  tone ;  but  still  she  tried  to  get  away,  and  cried 
imploringly  to  her  master  to  release  her  from  Dixon's 
hold.     Mr.  Rivers  grew  angry. 

"  Let  the  woman  go,  I  say.  You  have  not  the  smallest 
claim  upon  her,  no  more  than  she  upon  you.  If  she 
chooses  to  stay  here  she  shall.  Begone,  before  I  set  the 
police  on  you  !" 

"  Do  it  if  you  dare,  Sir,"  said  Dixon,  setting  his  back 
against  the  door.  "  I'll  not  stir  a  step  without  Grace ; 
she's  a  pretty  girl,  and  a  nice  girl,  and  I  married  her  in 
church,  too.  I  found  a  parson  to  do  it,  though  you 
wouldn't." 

"  Your  marriage  is  worth  nothing ;  I  told  you  so  at  the 
time.  It  was  against  the  law,  and  the  law  does  not  recog- 
nize it.  She  is  not  your  wife,  and  so,  very  rightly,  she  re- 
fuses to  go  back  to  you ;  and  I,  as  magistrate,  will  protect 
her  in  this  refusal.  Let  her  go."  And  Mr.  Rivers,  follow- 
ing words  by  action,  again  shook  off  the  fellow's  grasp, 
and  let  the  young  woman  free.  "  Now,  Grace,  get  away 
up  stairs,  and  let  us  put  an  end  to  this  nonsense." 


128  nANNAII. 

For,  in  spite  of  their  respect  for  their  master,  the  other 
servants  seemed  rather  amused  than  not  at  this  spectacle 
of  a  gentleman  arguing  with  a  drunken  man  for  the  pos- 
session of  his  wife ;  or,  perhaps,  some  of  them,  having  as 
confused  notions  of  the  marriage  laws  as  James  Dixon,  had 
thought  Jem  was  rather  hardly  used,  and  ought  to  get 
Grace  if  he  wanted.  John,  the  butler,  an  old  servant,  even 
ventured  to  hint  this,  and  that  it  was  a  pity  to  meddle  be- 
tween man  and  wife. 

"  Did  I  not  say  plainly  that  she  is  not  his  wife  ?"  cried 
Mr.  Rivers,  in  much  displeasure.  "A  man  can  not  marry 
his  wife's  sister.  I  am  master  here,  and  out  of  my  house 
she  shall  not  stir  against  her  will.  Grace,  go  up  stairs  im- 
mediately with  Miss  Thelluson." 

Then  Dixon's  lingering  civility  and  respect  for  the 
clergy  quite  left  him.  He  squared  uj)  at  Mr.  Rivers  in 
drunken  rage. 

"You're  a  nice  parson,  you  are!  Mind  your  own  busi- 
ness, and  I'll  mind  mine.  Your  own  hands  bean't  so  very 
clean,  I  reckon.  Some  folk  'ud  say  mine  were  the  cleanest 
o'  the  two." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  scoundrel  ?  Speak  out,  or  I'll 
take  you  by  the  neck  and  shake  you  like  a  rat !" 

For  Mr.  Rivers  was  a  young  man,  and  his  passions  were 
up;  and  Dixon  looked  so  very  like  a  rat,  with  his  glit- 
tering, hungry  eyes,  and  a  creeping  way  he  had  till  he 
showed  his  teeth  and  sprung  upon  you.  Hannah  won- 
dered how  on  earth  poor,  pretty  Grace  could  ever  have 
been  persuaded  to  marry  him.  But  no  doubt  it  w^as  like 
so  many  marriages,  the  mere  result  of  circumstances,  and 
for  the  sake  of  the  children.  "  If  ever  I  could  marry  that 
man,  it  would  be  for  the  sake  of  his  children,"  said  once  a 
very  good  woman ;  and  though  men  are  probably  too  vain 
to  believe  it,  many  another  good  woman  may  have  felt  the 
same. 

"What  do  I  mean,  Sir?"  said  Dixon,  with  a  laugh  ;  "oh, 
you  knows  well  enough  what  I  mean,  and  so  do  your  serv- 
ants there,  and  so  does  all  Easterham.    There  bean't  much 


HANNAH.  129 

to  choose  betwixt  you  and  me,  Mr.  Rivers,  if  all  tales  be 
true." 

"What  tales?"  said  Bernard,  slowly,  turning  w^hite, 
though  he  still  held  his  ground,  and  deliberately  faced  the 
man.  For  all  his  servants  were  facing  him,  and  on  more 
than  one  countenance  was  a  horrid  kind  of  smile,  the  smile 
with  which,  in  these  modern  days,  when  the  old  feudal 
reverence  seems  so  mournfully  wearing  off,  the  kitchen 
often  views  the  iniquities  of  the  parlor.     "  What  tales?" 

"  Of  course  it  isn't  true.  Sir — or  else  it  doesn't  matter — - 
gentlefolks  may  do  any  thing  they  likes.  But  people  do 
say,  Mr.  Rivers,  that  you  and  I  row  in  the  same  boat ; 
only  I  was  honest  enough  to  marry  my  wife's  sister,  and 
you— wasn't.     That's  all !" 

It  was  enough.  Brief  as  the  accusation  was  put,  there 
was  no  mistaking  it,  or  Dixon's  meaning  in  it.  Either  Mr. 
Rivers  had  not  believed  the  man's  insolence  would  go  so 
far,  or  was  unaware  of  the  extent  to  which  the  scandal 
had  grown ;  but  he  stood,  for  the  moment,  perfectly  para- 
lyzed. He  neither  looked  to  one  side  nor  the  other — to 
Hannah,  who  had  scarcely  taken  it  in,  or  to  the  servants, 
who  had  taken  it  in  only  too  plainly.  Twice  he  opened 
his  lips  to  speak,  and  twice  his  voice  failed.  At  last  he 
said,  in  a  voice  so  hollow  and  so  unlike  his  own  that  ev- 
ery body  started : 

"It  is  a  lie  !  I  declare,  before  God  and  all  now  present, 
that  what  this  man  says  against  me  is  a  foul,  damnable 
lie !" 

He  uttered  the  ugly  words  as  strongly  and  solemnly  as 
he  was  accustomed  to  read  such  out  of  the  Bible  in  his 
pulpit  at  church.  They  sent  a  thrill  through  every  listen- 
er, and  sobered  even  the  drunken  man.  But  Jem  soon 
saw  his  advantage,  and  took  it. 

"Lie  or  not,  Sir,  it  looks  just  the  same,  and  folks  believe 

it  all  the  same.     When  a  poor  man  takes  a  young  woman 

into  his  house,  and  either  marries  her  or  wants  to,  what  an 

■  awful  row  you  kick  up  about  it !     But  when  a  gentleman 

does  it — oh  dear !  it's  quite  another  thing !" 

F2 


130  HANNAH. 

Mr.  Rivers  almost  ground  his  teeth  together ;  but  still 
no  words  came  except  the  repetition  of  those  four, "  It  is 
a  lie !" 

"  Well,  if  it  is.  Sir,  it  looks  uncommon  queer,  anyhow. 
For  a  young  lady  and  a  young  gentleman  to  live  togeth- 
er, and  be  a-going  out  and  a-coming  home  together ;  and 
when  we  meets  'em,  as  I  did  a  bit  ago,  not  exactly  a-going 
straight  home,  but  a-walking  and  a-whispering  together 
in  the  dark — 'twas  them,  sure,  for  the  lady  had  got  a  red 
hood  on,  and  she's  got  it  on  still." 

Hannah  put  up  her  hand  to  her  head.  Until  this  mo- 
ment, confused  and  bewildered,  and  full  of  pity  for  unfor- 
tunate Grace,  she  had  scarcely  understood  the  scandal 
with  regard  to  herself.  Now  she  did.  Plain  as  light — 
or,  rather,  black  as  darkness — she  saw  all  that  she  was  ac- 
cused of,  all  that  she  had  innocently  laid  herself  open  to, 
and  from  which  she  must  at  once  defend  herself.     How? 

It  was  horrible!  To  stand  there  and  hear  her  good 
name  taken  away  before  her  own  servants,  and  with  her 
brother-in-law  close  by !  She  cast  a  wild  appealing  look 
to  him,  as  if  he  could  protect  her ;  but  he  took  no  notice 
— scarcely  seemed  to  see  her.  Grace  only — poor,  miser- 
able Grace — stole  up  to  her  and  caught  her  hand. 

"  It  is  a  lie,  miss — and  Jem  knows  it  is  !  You  musn't 
mind  what  he  says." 

And  then  another  of  the  women-servants — an  under 
house-maid  to  whom  she  had  been  specially  kind  —  ran 
across  to  her,  beginning  to  cry.  Oh,  the  humiliation  of 
those  tears ! 

Somebody  must  speak.  This  dreadful  scene  must  be 
ended. 

"  Sister  Hannah,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  at  length  recovering 
himself,  and  speaking  in  his  natural  manner,  but  with 
grave  and  pointed  respect,  "  will  you  oblige  me  by  taking 
Grace  up  stairs?  Webb  and  Jacob,  remove  this  fellow 
from  my  house  immediately ;  or  else,  as  I  said,  we  must 
fetch  the  police." 

Mr.  Rivers  had  great  influence  when  he  chose  to  exer- 


HANNAH.  131 

else  it,  especially  with  his  inferiors.  His  extraordinarily 
sweet  temper,  his  tender  consideration  for  other  people's 
feelings,  his  habit  of  putting  himself  in  their  place — the 
lowest  and  most  degraded  of  them,  and  judging  them 
mercifully,  as  the  purest-hearted  always  do  judge — these 
things  stood  him  in  good  stead,  both  in  his  household  and 
his  parish.  Besides,  when  a  mild  man  once  gets  thorough- 
ly angry,  people  know  he  means  it,  and  are  frightened  ac- 
cordingly. 

Either  Dixon  felt  some  slight  remorse,  or  dreaded  the 
police,  for  he  suffered  himself  to  be  conveyed  quietly 
outside,  and  the  gate  locked  upon  him,  without  making 
more  ado  than  a  few  harmless  pullings  of  the  garden  bell. 
These  at  last  subsided,  and  the  household  became  quiet. 

Quiet,  after  such  a  scene !  As  if  it  were  possible !  Re- 
tiring was  a  mere  form.  The  servants  sat  up  till  mid- 
night, gossiping  gloriously  over  the  kitchen  fire.  Hannah 
heard  them  where  she,  too,  sat,  wide  awake,  in  the  dread- 
ful silence  and  solitude  of  her  own  room. 

She  had  gone  up  stairs  with  Grace,  as  bidden ;  and  they 
had  separated,  without  exchanging  a  word,  at  the  nursery 
door.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Hannah  went  to  bed 
without  taking  one  watchful,  comforting  look,  one  kiss  of 
her  sleeping  darling.  She  went  to  bed  in  a  mechanical, 
stunned  way ;  for  though  it  was  still  quite  early,  she  never 
thought  of  rejoining  her  brother-in-law.  She  heard  him 
moving  up  and  down  the  house  for  an  hour  or  more,  even 
after  that  cruel  clamor  of  tongues  in  the  kitchen  was  si- 
lent ;  but  to  meet  him  again  that  night  never  struck  her 
as  a  possibility.  What  help,  what  comfort,  could  he  be  to 
her  ? — he  who  was  joined  with  her  in  this  infamous  slan- 
der ?  Henceforth,  instead  of  coming  to  him  for  protection, 
she  must  avoid  him  as  she  would  the  plague. 

"  Oh,  what  have  I  done,  and  how  have  I  erred,  that  all 
this  misery  should  fall  upon  me  ?"  moaned  poor  Hannah, 
as  bit  by  bit  she  realized  her  position — the  misinterpreta- 
tions that  might  be  put  upon  her  daily  conduct,  even  as 
upon  to-night's  walk  across  the  hill.     Perhaps  what  Dixon 


132  HANNAH. 

said  was  true — that  all  Easterham  was  watching  her  and 
speaking  evil  of  her?  Was  this  the  meaning  of  Lady 
Rivers's  dark  hints — of  the  eager  desire  to  get  her  mar- 
ried to  Mr.  Morecamb — of  the  falling  off  of  late  in  social 
civilities — a  certain  polite  coldness  in  houses  where  her 
visits  used  to  be  welcomed — a  gradual  cessation  of  lady 
visitors  at  the  House  on  the  Hill  ?  As  all  these  facts  came 
back  upon  her  mind,  fitting  into  one  another,  as  unpleas- 
ant facts  do,  when  one  once  fancies  one  has  got  the  key  to 
them,  Hannah  groaned  aloud,  feeling  as  if  she  could  lay 
her  down  and  die.  It  had  all  come  so  suddenly.  She  had 
gone  on  her  w^ay  in  such  happy  unsuspiciousness.  Yes ! 
now  she  recognized,  with  mingled  wonder  and — was  it  ter- 
ror also  ? — how  very  happy  she  had  been.  There  seemed 
nothing  left  for  her  but  to  lay  her  down  and  die. 

Every  body  knows  the  story  of  the  servant  lamenting 
his  master's  dying  innocent,  to  whom  the  master  said, 
"  Would  you  have  me  die  guilty  ?"  Nevertheless,  it  is  hard 
to  die,  even  when  innocent.  'No  bitterer  hour  ever  came  to 
Hannah,  or  was  likely  to  come,  than  that  first  hour  after  a 
bad  man's  wicked  words  had  forced  from  Mr.  Rivers  the 
declaration — which  in  itself,  and  in  his  ever  feeling  it  in- 
cumbent upon  himself  to  make  it,  was  disgrace  enough — 
"It  is  a  lie!" 

'Of  course  it  was ;  and  any  friend  who  really  knew  them 
both  would  be  sure  of  that.  But  what  of  the  world  at 
large — the  careless  world,  that  judges  from  hearsay — the 
evil  world,  which  is  always  so  quick  to  discover,  so  ready 
to  gloat  over  any  thing  wrong  ?  And  there  must  be  some- 
thing wrong,  some  false  position,  some  oversight  in  con- 
duct, some  unfortunate  concatenation  of  circumstances,  to 
make  such  a  lie  possible. 

"  Be  thou  chaste  as  ice,  pure  as  snow,  thou  shalt  not  es- 
cape calumny."  Most  true ;  but  the  calumny  is  rarely  al- 
together baseless — some  careless,  passing  hand  may  have 
smutched  the  snow,  or  the  ice  have  let  itself  be  carried  too 
near  the  fire.  Hannah  remembered  now,  wondering  she 
could  have  forgotten  it  so  long.  Lady  Dunsmore's  warn- 


HANXAII.  133 

ing:  "He  is  not  your  brother;  it  is  only  a  social  fiction 
that  makes  him  so."  And  if  Bernard  Kivers  and  she  were 
not  brother  and  sister,  if  there  was  no  tie  of  blood  between 
them,  nothing  that,  if  he  had  not  been  Rosa's  husband 
first,  would  have  prevented  their  marrying — why,  then, 
she  ought  not  to  have  gone  and  lived  with  him.  The 
chain  of  argument  seemed  so  plain,  that  in  thinking  it  out 
Hannah  suddenly  begun  to  tremble  —  nay,  she  actually 
shuddered ;  but,  strange  contradiction !  it  v»^as  not  alto- 
gether a  shudder  of  pain. 

Fictions,  social  and  otherwise,  may  have  their  day,  when 
both  the  simple  and  the  cunning  accept  them.  But  it  is 
not  a  day  which  lasts  forever.  By-and-by  they  tumble 
down  like  all  other  shams;  and  the  poor  heart  who  had 
dwelt  in  them  is  cast  out,  bare  and  shelterless,  to  face  the 
bitter  truth  as  best  it  may. 

Hannah's  was  the  most  innocent  heart  possible — strange- 
ly so  for  a  w^oman  who  had  lived,  not  ignorantly,  in  the 
world  for  thirty  years.  Whatever  mistake  she  had  fallen 
into — under  whatever  delusion  she  had  wrapped  herself — 
it  was  all  done  as  unknowingly,  as  foolishly,  as  if  she 
had  been  a  seven-years-old  child.  But  that  did  not  hin- 
der her  from  sufiering  like  a  woman — a  woman  who,  after 
a  long  dream  of  peace,  wakes  up  to  find  she  has  been  sleep- 
ing on  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 

That  pleasant  fiction  which  had  been  torn  down  by  the 
rough  hands  of  James  Dixon,  opened  her  eyes  to  its  corre- 
sponding truth,  that  nature  herself  sets  bounds  to  the  as- 
sociation of  men  and  women — certainly  of  young  men  and 
young  women — and  that,  save  under  very  exceptional  cir- 
cumstances, all  pseudo-relationships  are  a  mistake.  Two 
people,  who  are  neither  akin  by  blood  nor  bound  in  wed- 
lock, can  seldom,  almost  never,  live  together  in  close  and 
afiectionate  friendship  without  this  friendship  growing  to 
be  something  less  or  something  more.  The  thing  is  ab- 
normal, and  against  nature;  and  l^ature  avenges  herself 
by  asserting  her  rights  and  exacting  her  punishments. 

The  law  says  to  people  in  such  positions — to  brothers 


134  HANNAH. 

and  sisters  in  law  especially — "  you  shall  not  marry."  But 
it  can  not  say, "  You  shall  not  love."  It  can  not  prevent 
the  gradual  growth  of  that  fond,  intimate  affection  which 
is  the  surest  basis  of  married  happiness.  Suppose — Han- 
nah put  the  question  to  herself  with  frightened  conscience 
— suppose,  instead  of  that  tender  friendship  which  un- 
doubtedly existed  between  them,  she  and  Bernard  had 
really  fallen  in  love  with  one  another? 

That  he  was  very  fond  of  her,  in  a  sort  of  way,  she  never 
doubted.  That  she  was  fond  of  him — yes,  that  also  was 
true.  She  could  not  help  it.  He  was  so  good ;  he  made 
her  so  happy.  Many  a  man  is  deeply  attached  to  a  woman 
— wife  or  sister — whom  he  yet  entirely  fails  in  making  hap- 
py. He  thinks  too  much  of  himself,  too  little  of  her.  But 
Bernard  was  a  different  kind  of  man.  That  sweet  sun- 
shininess  of  nature,  that  generous  self-forgetfulness,  that 
constant  protecting  tenderness  —  more  demonstrative  in 
deeds  than  words — qualities  so  rare  in  men,  and  so  precious 
when  found,  were  his  to  perfection.  He  was  not  brilliantly 
clever ;  and  he  had  many  little  faults ;  rashnesses,  bursts 
of  wrath,  sudden,  childish,  fantastic  humors,  followed  by 
pathetic  contrition;  but  he  was  intensely  lovable.  Han- 
nah had  told  him  truly  when  she  said — oh,  how  hot  she 
grew  when  she  recalled  it ! — "  that  it  was  a  blessing  to 
live  with  him,"  for  every  body  whom  he  lived  with  he 
contrived  to  make  happy. 

"  Oh,  we  have  been  so  happy  together,"  Rosa  had  sighed, 
almost  with  her  last  breath.  And  Rosa's  sister,  in  the  bit- 
ter pang  which  seemed  like  death — for  it  must  surely  re- 
sult in  a  parting  as  complete — could  have  said  the  same. 

Yes,  of  course  she  must  go  away.  There  seemed  to  her 
at  first  no  other  alternative.  She  must  quit  the  House  on 
the  Hill  the  very  next  day.  This  not  alone  for  her  own 
sake.  It  was,  as  Bernard  had  once  said,  truly  a  house  on 
a  hill,  exposed  to  every  comment,  a  beacon  and  example 
to  every  eye.  No  cloud  of  suspicion  must  be  suffered  to 
rest  upon  it — not  for  a  day,  an  hour.  She  would  run 
aw^y  at  once. 


HANNAH,  135 

And  yet,  was  that  the  act  of  innocence — did  it  look  like 
innocence?  Was  it  not  much  more  like  the  impulse  of 
cowardly  guilt  ?  And  if  she  did  run,  could  she  take  Rosie 
with  her  ? 

Then  poor  Hannah  at  once  fell  prone,  crushed  by  a 
weight  of  misery  greater  than  she  could  bear.  To  go 
away  and  leave  her  child  behind !  All  Easterham  might 
be  howling  at  her,  but  she  could  never  do  that.  Life  with- 
out Rosie — the  old,  blank,  sunless,  childless  life — she  could 
not  endure  it.  It  would  kill  her  at  once.  Better  a  thou- 
sand times  stay  on  here,  strong  in  her  innocence,  and  let 
Easterham  do  and  say  its  worst.  For  she  had  done  no 
wrong,  and,  come  what  would,  she  had  been  happy.  This 
sense  of  happiness,  never  stronger  than  a  few  hours  ago, 
when  she  and  Bernard  were,  taking  together  that  innocent- 
guilty  walk,  and  finding  out  more  than  ever  the  deep,  true 
harmony  of  soul,  which,  in  spite  of  their  great  differences 
of  character,  existed  between  them,  seemed  to  wrap  her 
up,  close  and  warm,  her  only  shelter  against  the  bitter 
outside  blast. 

What  would  her  brother-in-law  say  ?  She  could  not 
act  for  herself  alone;  the  position  was  as  cruel  for  him 
as  for  her.  She  must  think  of  him  too,  and  wait  for  his 
opinion,  whatever  it  might  be.  And  then  she  became 
conscious  how  completely  she  had  learned  to  look  to  Ber- 
nard's opinion,  to  lean  upon  his  judgment,  to  consult 
his  tastes,  to  make  him,  in  short,  for  these  many  months, 
what  no  man  who  is  neither  her  relative  nor  her  lover 
ought  to  be  to  any  woman — the  one  primary  object  of 
her  life. 

Utterly  bewildered,  half  frightened,  and  unable  to  come 
to  the  slightest  conclusion,  Hannah,  after  lying  awake  half 
the  night,  fell  heavily  asleep,  nor  wakened  till  the  sound 
of  little  feet  in  her  room,  and  the  shrill,  joyous  cry — as 
sweet  as  the  song  of  the  lark  springing  up  into  the  morn- 
ing air  over  a  clover-field — "  Tannic,  Tannic  !  Wake  up. 
Tannic  !"  dispersed  in  a  moment  all  the  cloudy  despairs  of 
the  nisrht. 


136  HANXAn. 

Tennyson  knew  human  nature  well  when  he  made  the 
rejected  lover  say, 

"My  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest: 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast." 

That  is,  they  press  out  every  image  unholy,  or  painful,  or 
despairing.  Such  can  not  long  exist  in  any  heart  that  is 
filled  with  a  child.  Hannah  had  sometimes  read  in  novels 
of  women  who  were  mothers  falling  in  love,  and  with  other 
men  than  their  own  husbands;  kissing  their  babies  in 
their  innocent  cradles,  and  then  flying  from  lawful  homes 
to  homes  unlawful.  All  these  stories  seemed  to  her  then 
very  dreadful,  very  tragical,  but  not  quite  impossible. 
Now,  since  she  had  had  Rosie,  they  almost  did  seem  im- 
possible. How  a  woman  once  blessed  with  a  child  could 
ever  think  of  any  man  alive  she  could  not  comprehend. 

Hannah  had  not  held  her  little  niece  beside  her  for  five 
minutes — feasting  her  eyes  on  the  loving,  merry  face,  and 
playing  all  the  funny  little  games  which  Rosie  and  Tannic 
were  so  grand  at  when  together — before  all  the  agony  of 
last  night  became  as  unreal  as  last  night's  dreams.  This 
was  the  real  thing — the  young  life  intrusted  to  her  care — 
the  young  soul  growing  up  under  the  shelter  of  her  love. 
She  rose  and  dressed  for  breakfast,  feeling  that  with  the 
child  in  her  arms  she  could  face  the  whole  world. 

Ay,  her  brother-in-law  included ;  though  this  was  a  hard 
thing.  She  would  not  have  been  a  woman  not  to  have 
found  it  hard.  And  if  he  decided  that  she  must  stay — 
that,  strong  in  their  innocence,  they  must  treat  Dixon's 
malicious  insolence  as  mere  insolence,  no  more,  and  make 
no  change  whatever  in  their  way  of  life — still,  how  doubly 
difiicult  that  life  would  be !  To  meet  day  after  day  at 
table  and  fireside;  to  endure,  not  in  cheerful  ignorance, 
but  painful  consciousness,  the  stare  of  all  suspicious  eyes, 
especially  of  their  own  household,  who  had  heard  them  so 
wickedly  accused,  and  seen — they  must  have  seen  ! — how 
deep  the  wound  had  gone.  It  would  be  dreadful — almost 
unbearable. 

And  then — with  rcsrard  to  their  two  selves ! 


HANNAH.  137 

Bernard  was — Hannah  knew  it,  felt  it — one  of  the  purest- 
hearted  of  men.  Living  in  the  house  with  him  was  like 
living  with  a  woman ;  nay,  not  all  women  had  his  delicacy 
of  feeling.  Frank  and  familiar  as  his  manner  was — or  had 
been  till  lately — he  never  was  free  w^ith  her — never  ca- 
ressed her;  nothing  but  the  ordinary  shake  of  the  hand 
had  ever  passed  between  them,  even  though  he  was  her 
brother-in-law.  Hannah  liked  this  reserve ;  she  was  not 
used  to  kissing;  as  people  in  large  families  are,  as  the 
Moat  House  girls  were ;  it  had  rather  surprised  her  to  see 
the  way  they  all  hung  about  young  Mr.  Melville.  But, 
even  though  in  their  daily  conduct  to  one  another,  private 
and  public,  she  and  Bernard  could  never  be  impeached, 
still  the  horrible  possibility  of  being  watched — watched 
and  suspected — and  that  both  knew  it  was  so,  was  enough 
to  make  the  relations  between  them  so  painful,  that  she 
hardly  knew  how  she  should  bear  it. 

Even  this  morning  her  foot  lingered  on  the  stair,  and 
that  bright  breakfast-room,  with  its  pleasant  morning 
greeting,  seemed  a  sort  of  purgatory  that  she  would  have 
escaped  if  she  could. 

She  did  escape  it,  for  it  was  empty  of  every  body  but 
Webb,  the  butler,  w^iom  she  saw  hovering  about,  near,  sus- 
piciously near,  to  an  open  note,  or  rather  a  scrap  of  paper, 
left  on  the  table,  open — was  it  intentionally  open  ? — for 
any  body's  perusal. 

"Master  has  just  gone  off  to  the  railway  in  the  dog-cart, 
Miss  Thelluson.  He  left  me  this  bit  of  paper,  with  an 
apology  to  you,  saying  he  was  in  a  great  hurry,  and  hadn't 
time  to  write  more,  or  he  would  miss  the  London  train." 

"  He  has  gone  to  London  ?"  said  Hannah,  with  a  great 
sense  of  relief,  and  yet  of  pain. 

"  Yes,  miss,  I  think  so ;  but  the  note  says — " 

Then  Webb  had  gratified  his  curiosity  by  reading  the 
paper. 

Any  body  might  have  read  it,  certainly.  It  might  have 
been  printed  in  the  Times  newspaper,  or  declaimed  by  the 
Easterham  town-crier  for  the  benefit  of  the  small  public  at 


138  HANNAH. 

the  market-place.  And  yet  Hannah's  eyes  read  it  eager- 
ly, and  her  heart  beat  as  she  did  so  in  a  way  that  no  sight 
of  Bernard's  familiar  handwriting  had  ever  made  it  beat 
before. 

"Dear  Sister  Hannah, — ^I  am  away  to  town  to  visit  a 
sick  friend,  and  am  obliged  to  start  very  early.     I  hope  to 
1)6  back  by  Sunday,  but  do  not  expect  me  till  you  see  me. 
Give  papa's  love  to  his  little  Rosie,  and  believe  me, 
"  Your  affectionate  brother, 

"Bernard  Rivers. 
"  Perhaps  you  will  kindly  call  at  the  Moat  House  to-day, 
and  tell  them  I  am  gone." 


CHAPTER  VIH. 


Hannah's  lirst  feeling  on  discovering  her  brother-in- 
law's  absence  was  intense  relief  Then,  as  she  sat  aver  the 
solitary  breakfast -table,  there  came  unto  her  an  uneasi- 
ness akin  to  fear.  He  had  done  exactly  wiiat  she  had 
not  done ;  what,  in  spite  of  her  first  instinctive  wish,  she 
had  decided  was  unwise  and  cowardly  to  do — he  had  run 
away. 

From  what  ?  From  the  scandal  ?  But  since  it  was  all 
false,  and  they  innocent,  what  did  it  matter?  Could  they 
not  live  it  down?  Dreadful  as  things  had  appeared  in 
the  long  watches  of  the  night,  in  that  clear  light  of  morn- 
ing, and  with  the  touch  of  her  darling's  arms  still  lingering 
about  her  neck,  Hannah  felt  that  she  could  live  it  down. 
Perhaps  he  could  not ;  perhaps  he  was  afraid — and  a  cold 
shiver  crept  over  her — a  conviction  that  he  was  afraid. 

In  the  sick  friend  she  did  not  quite  believe.  She  knew 
all  Bernard's  affairs — knew  that  though  he  had  an  old  col- 
lege companion  ill  in  London,  it  was  no  friend  close  enough 
to  take  him  suddenly  and  compulsorily  from  all  his  duties 
— he  who  so  hated  going  from  home.     Yes,  he  must  have 


HAi^NAH.  139 

gone  on  her  account,  and  in  consequence  of  what  happened 
last  night.  Her  first  impulse  of  relief  and  gratitude  sank 
into  another  sort  of  feeling.  He  had  certainly  run  away, 
leaving  her  to  fight  the  battle  alone.  That  is,  if  he  meant 
them  to  fight  it  out.  If  not,  if  he  wished  her  to  leave  him 
in  his  absence,  he  would  perhaps  take  the  opportunity  of 
telling  her  so. 

For  not  yet — not  even  yet—rdid  that  other  solution  of 
the  difficulty  suggest  itself  to  Hannah's  mind.  Had  she 
looked  at  the  sweet,  grave  face  reflected  in  the  mirror  op- 
posite, had  she  heard  the  patient,  tender  voice  which  an- 
swered Rosie's  infantile  exactions — for  she  had  gone  and 
fetched  the  child,  as  usual,  after  breakfast — the  truth 
would  at  once  have  occurred  to  her  concerning  any  other 
woman.  But  it  did  not  concerning  herself;  or  only  in 
that  form — a  rather  sad  but  perfectly  safe  one — not  th;it 
her  brother-in-law  was  growing  fond  of  her,  but  that  she 
was  growing  fond  of  him ;  fond  enough  to  make  his  mar- 
riage, or  any  other  catastrophe  which  should  part  them, 
not  so  indifierent  to  her  as  it  once  had  been. 

But  still  this  was  only  affection.  Hannah  had  never 
had  a  brother,  her  nearest  approach  to  the  tie  having  been 
her  cousin  Arthur,  who,  from  his  extreme  gentleness  and 
delicacy  of  health,  was  less  like  a  brother  than  a  sister — 
ay,  even  after  he  changed  into  a  lover.  Now,  when  not 
one  spark  of  passion,  only  sacred  tenderness,  was  mixed  up 
with  the  thought  of  him,  his  memory  was  less  that  of  a 
man  than  an  angel.  In  truth,  only  since  she  had  lived 
with  Mr.  Rivers  had  Hannah  found  out  what  it  was  to  as- 
sociate with  a  real  man,  at  once  strong  and  tender,  who 
put  a  woman  in  her  right  place  by  conscientiously  taking 
his  own  with  regard  to  her,  and  being  to  her  at  once  a 
shelter  and  a  shield. 

Poor  Hannah !  she  had  grown  so  accustomed  now  to  be 
taken  care  of,  that  she  felt  if  fate  thrust  her  out  into  the 
bitter  world  again  she  should  be  as  helpless  as  one  of  those 
little  fledgelings  about  whom,  in  the  intervals  of  her  med- 
itations, she  was  telling  Rosie  a  pathetic  story.     And  when 


140  HANNAH. 

Kosie  said, "  Poor  little  dicky-birds !"  and  looked  quite 
sad,  then,  seeing  Aunt  Hannah  look  sad  too — alas !  not 
about  "  dicky-birds  " — burst  into  the  sympathetic  sobbing 
of  her  innocent  age,  Aunt  Hannah's  heart  felt  like  to 
break. 

It  would  have  broken  many  a  time  that  day  but  for  the 
blessed  necessity  of  keeping  a  bright  face  before  the  child 
— ay,  even  though  sometimes  there  occurred  to  her,  with  a 
refined  self-torture,  the  thought  of  what  she  should  do  if 
Mr.  Rivers  sent  her  away  without  Rosie.  But  she  did  not 
seriously  fear  this — he  could  not  be  capable  of  such  cru- 
elty. If  he  were,  why.  Aunt  Hannah  was  quite  capable 
of—something  else  which  he  might  not  exactly  like,  and 
which  perhaps  the  unpleasant  English  law  might  call 
child-stealing.  And  she  remembered  a  story,  a  true  sto- 
ry, of  an  aunt  who  had  once  traveled  from  England  to 
America,  and  there  fairly  kidnapped  from  some  wicked  re- 
lations her  dead  sister's  child;  pretended  to  take  it  out 
for  a  walk,  and  fled  over  snow  and  through  forests,  trav- 
eling by  night  and  hiding  by  day,  till  she  caught  the  New 
York  steamer,  and  sailed,  safe  and  triumphant,  for  English 
shores. 

"As  I  would  sail,  for  Australia  or  America,  any  day,  if 
he  drives  me  to  it.  Oh,  Rosie,  you  little  know  what  a  des- 
perate woman  Tannic  could  be  made !" 

And  Rosie  laughed  in  her  face,  and  stroked  it,  and  said, 
"  Good  Tannic,  pretty  Tannic !"  till  the  demon  sank  down, 
and  the  pure  angel  that  always  seems  to  look  out  of  baby- 
eyes  comforted  Hannah  in  spite  of  herself  No  one  can 
be  altogether  wretched,  for  long  together,  who  has  the 
charge  of  a  healthy,  happy,  loving  little  child. 

Sunday  came,  but  Mr.  Rivers  did  not  return,  sending  as 
substitute  in  his  pulpit  an  old  college  chum,  who  reported 
that  he  had  left  London  for  Cambridge,  and  was  staying 
there  in  his  old  college ;  at  which  Lady  Rivers  expressed 
herself  much  pleased. 

"  He  shuts  himself  up  far  too  much  at  home,  which  would 
be  natural  enoucrh  if  he  had  a  wife,  but  for  a  man  in  Ber- 


HAi^NAH,  141 

nard's  circumstances  is  perfectly  ridiculous.  I  hope  he 
will  now  see  his  mistake  and  correct  it." 

Hannah  answered  nothing.  She  knew  she  was  being 
talked  at,  as  was  the  habit  of  the  Moat  House.  Her  only 
protection  was  not  to  seem  to  hear.  She  had,  as  he  de- 
sired, taken  Bernard's  message  to  his  family,  even  showing 
the  letter,  and  another  letter  she  got  from  him  respecting 
Mr.  Hewlett,  the  clergyman,  also  evidently  meant  to  be 
shown.  Indeed,  he  wrote  almost  daily  to  her  about  some 
parish  business  or  other,  for  Hannah  had  become  to  him 
like  her  lost  sister — his  "curate  in  petticoats."  But  ev- 
ery letter  was  the  briefest,  most  matter-of-fact  possible, 
beginning  "  My  dear  sister,"  and  ending  "  your  affection- 
ate brother."  Did  he  do  this  intentionally,  or  make  the 
epistles  public  intentionally  ?  She  rather  thought  so.  A 
wise,  kind  precaution ;  and  yet  there  is  something  painful 
and  aggravating  in  any  friendship  which  requires  precau- 
tions. 

Day  after  day  Hannah  delivered  her  brother-in-law's 
messages,  and  transacted  his  business,  speaking  and  look- 
ing as  calmly  as  if  she  were  his  mere  locum  tenens^  his 
faithful  "  curate  " — as  if  her  throat  were  not  choking  and 
her  hands  trembling,  with  that  horrible  lie  of  Dixon's  ever 
present  to  her  mind.  She  tried  to  find  out  whether  it  had 
ever  reached  others'  minds — whether  there  was  any  differ- 
ence in  the  way  people  glanced  at  or  addressed  her ;  but 
beyond  a  certain  carelessness  with  which  she  was  usually 
treated  at  the  Moat  House  when  Mr.  Rivers  was  not  pres- 
ent, and  a  slight  coldness  in  other  houses— which  might  or 
might  not  have  been  her  own  morbid  fancy — she  discov- 
ered nothing. 

The  clergyman  sent  by  Bernard,  being  of  no  imposing 
personality  or  high  worldly  standing,  but  only  just  a  poor 
"  coach "  at  Cambridge,  was  not  invited  to  stay  at  the 
Moat  House ;  so  Miss  Thelluson  had  to  entertain  him  her- 
self till  Monday.  It  was  an  easy  task  enough ;  he  was 
very  meek,  very  quiet,  and  very  full  of  admiration  of  Mr. 
Rivers,  concerning  whose  college  life  he  told  Hannah  sto- 


142  HANNAH. 

ries  without  end.  She  listened  with  an  interest  strangely- 
warm  and  tender;  for  the  tales  were  all  to  his  credit,  and 
proved  him  to  have  been  then,  as  now,  a  man  who,  even 
as  a  young  man,  was  neither  afraid  of  being  good  nor 
ashamed  of  being  amiable.  They  made  her  almost  for- 
give herself  for  another  fact  w^hich  had  alarmed  and 
startled  her — that  she  missed  him  so  much. 

People  of  Hannah's  character,  accustomed  of  sad  neces- 
sity to  stand  alone  until  self-dependent  solitude  becomes 
second  nature,  do  not  often  "miss"  other  people.  They 
like  their  friends  well  enough,  are  glad  to  meet  and  sorry 
to  part ;  but  still  no  ordinary  parting  brings  with  it  that 
intense  sense  of  loss  of  which  Hannali  was  painfully  con- 
scious now  her  brother-in-law  was  away.  She  had  thought 
the  child  was  company  enough  ;  and  so  Rosie  was  in  day- 
light hours — the  little  imperious  darling,  who  ruled  Aunt 
Hannah  with  a  rod  of  iron,  except  when  Aunt  Hannah 
saw  it  was  for  the  child's  good  to  govern  her,  when  she 
turned  the  tables  with  a  firm  gentleness  that  Rosie  never 
disobeyed — but  after  Rosie  had  gone  to  bed  the  blank  si- 
lence which  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  house  was  indescrib- 
able. 

Oh,  the  lonely  tea-table ! — for  she  had  abolished  seven 
o'clock  dinners;  oh,  the  empty  drawing-room,  with  its 
ghostly  shadows  and  strange  noises!  The  happy  home 
felt  as  dreary  as  Bernard  must  have  found  it  after  poor 
Rosa  died.  In  the  long  hours  of  evening  solitude  Han- 
nah's thoughts,  beaten  back  by  the  never-ceasing  business 
of  the  day,  returned  in  battalions,  attacking  her  on  every 
weak  side,  often  from  totally  opposite  sides,  so  that  she  re- 
tired, worsted,  to  her  inner  self — the  little  secret  chambers 
which  her  soul  had  dwelt  in  ever  since  she  was  a  child. 
Yet  even  there  was  no  peace  now.  Bernard  had  let  him- 
self into  her  heart  with  that  wonderful  key  of  sympathy 
which  he  so  well  knew  how  to  use,  and  even  in  her  deep- 
est and  most  sacred  self  she  was  entirely  her  own  no  more. 
Continually  she  wanted  him — to  talk  to,  to  argue  with,  to 
laugh  with,  nay,  even  to  laugh  at  sometimes.     She  missed 


HANNAH.  143 

him  everywhere,  in  every  thing,  with  the  bitter  want  of 
those  who,  having  lived  together  for  many  months,  come 
inevitably,  as  was  before  said,  either  to  dislike  one  another 
excessively,  or — that  other  alternative,  which  is  sometimes 
the  most  fatal  of  the  two — to  love  one  another.  Such  love 
has  a  depth  and  passion  to  which  common  feelings  can  no 
more  be  compared  than  the  rolling  of  a  noisy  brook  to  the 
solemn  flow  of  a  silent  river  which  bears  life  or  death  in 
its  waveless  but  inexorable  tide. 

Ay,  it  was  life  or  death.  Call  affection  by  what  name 
you  will,  when  it  becomes  all-absorbing  it  can,  in  the  case 
of  persons  not  akin  by  blood,  lead  but  to  one  result,  the 
love  whose  right  end  is  marriage.  When  Hannah,  as  her 
brother-in-law's  continued  absence  gave  her  more  time  for 
solitary  reflection  than  she  had  had  for  many  months,  came 
face  to  face  with  the  plain  fact,  how  close  they  had  grown, 
and  how  necessary  they  were  to  one  another,  she  began, 
startled,  to  ask  herself  if  this  so-called  sisterly  feeling 
were  really  sisterly?  What  if  it  were  not?  What  if  she 
had  deceived  herself,  and  that  sweet,  sad,  morning  dream, 
which  she  had  thought  protected  her  from  all  other  dreams 
of  love  and  marriage,  had  been,  after  all,  only  a  dream,  and 
this  the  reality?  Or  would  it  have  grown  into  such  had 
she  and  Bernard  met  as  perfect  strangers,  free  to  fall  in 
love  and  marry  as  strangers  do  ? 

"  Suppose  we  had  —  suppose  such  a  thing  had  been 
possible  ?"  thought  she.  And  then  came  a  second 
thought.  Why  was  it  impossible?  Who  made  it  so — 
God  or  man? 

Hannah  had  hitherto  never  fairly  considered  the  mat- 
ter— not  even  when  Grace's  misery  had  brought  it  home. 
With  her  natural  dislike  to  what  she  called  "walking 
through  muddy  water,"  she  had  avoided  it,  as  one  does 
avoid  any  needlessly  unpleasant  thing.  Now,  when  she 
felt  herself  turning  hot  and  cold  at  every  new  idea  which 
entered  her  mind,  and  beginning  to  think  of  her  brother- 
in-law — not  at  all  as  she  was  wont  to  think — the  question 
came,  startlingly,  was  she  right  or  wrong  in  so  doing  ? 


144  HANNAH. 

For  she  was  one  of  those  women  after  the  type  of  Jeanie 
*  in  "  Auld  Robin  Gray,"  to  whom  the  mere  fact, 

*'I  daurna  think  of  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin,'* 

was  the  beginning  and  end  of  every  thing. 

But  was  it  a  sin?  Could  she  find  any  thing  in  the  Bible 
to  prove  it  such  ?  She  took  down  a  "  Concordance,"  and 
searched  out  all  the  texts  which  bore  upon  the  subject, 
but  found  none,  except  that  prohibition  adduced  once  by 
Mrs.  Dixon — "  Thou  shalt  not  take  a  wife  to  her  sister  m 
her  life-time " — of  which  the  straightforward,  natural  in- 
terpretation was  that,  consequently,  it  might  be  done  af- 
ter her  death. 

Hight  or  wrong.  That,  as  Mr.  Rivers  had  more  than 
once  half  satirically  told  her,  was,  in  all  things,  the  sole 
question  in  Hannah's  mind.  As  for  the  social  and  legal 
])()int — lawful  marriage — that,  she  knew,  was  impossible; 
Bernard  had  said  so  himself.  But  was  the  love  which 
desired  marriage  —  absolute  love^  as  distinguished  from 
mere  affection  —  also  a  sin?  If  it  should  spring  up  in 
her  heart — of  his  she  never  thought — should  she  have  to 
smother  it  down  as  a  wicked  thing  ? 

That  was  her  terror,  and  that  alone.  The  rest,  and 
whatever  it  must  result  in,  was  mere  misery ;  and  Han- 
nah was  not  afraid  of  misery,  only  of  sin.  Yet,  when  day 
after  day  Bernard's  absence  lengthened,  and  except  these 
constant  business  letters  she  had  no  personal  tidings 
whatever  from  him,  there  grew  in  her  mind  a  kind  of  fear. 
The  house  felt  so  empty  without  him  that  she  sometimes 
caught  herself  wondering  how  he  managed  without  her — 
who  brought  him  his  hat  and  gloves,  and  arranged  his 
daily  memoranda — for,  like  most  other  excellent  men,  he 
was  a  little  disorderly,  and  very  dependent  upon  the  wom- 
en about  him.  Who  would  take  care  of  him,  and  see  that 
he  had  the  food  he  liked,  and  the  warm  wraps  he  required? 
All  these  thoughts  came  continually  back  npon  Hannah, 
in  a  piteously  human,  tender  shape,  quite  different  from 
that   dim  dream-love,  that  sainted  remembrance,  of  her 


HANNAH.  145 

lost  Arthur.  He  was  not  a  man  like  Bernard,  helpless 
even  while  helpful,  requiring  one  woman's  whole  thought 
and  care — he  was  an  angel  among  the  angels. 

That  power  which  every  good  man  has  to  turn  all  his 
female  ministrants  into  slaves,  by  being  himself  the  very 
opposite  of  a  tyrant;  who  can  win  from  all  household 
hearts  the  most  loyal  devotion,  because  exacting  none — 
this,  the  best  prerogative  and  truest  test  of  real  manhood, 
was  Bernard's  in  a  very  great  degree.  It  was,  as  Hannah 
had  once  innocently  told  him,  a  blessing  to  live  with  him, 
he  made  other  people's  lives  so.  bright.  She  had  no  idea 
how  dark  the  house  could  feel  till  he  was  gone — till,  day 
after  day  slipping  by,  and  he  not  returning,  it  settled  it- 
self for  the  time  into  a  house  without  a  master,-  a  solar 
system  without  a  sun. 

When  she  recognized  this,  the  sense  of  her  fast-coming 
fate  darkened  down  upon  Hannah.  She  was  not  a  young 
girl,  to  go  on  deceiving  herself  to  the  end ;  nay,  hers  was 
the  kind  of  nature  that  can  not  deceive  itself  if  it  would. 
During  the  first  week  of  Bernard's  absence  she  would  have 
almost  gone  wild  sometimes,  but  for  the  strong  conviction 
— like  poor  Grace's,  alas! — that  she  had  done  nothing 
wrong,  and  the  feeling,  still  stronger,  that  she  could  al- 
ways bear  any  thing  which  only  harmed  herself 

Then  she  had  the  child.  In  all  that  dreadful  time, 
which  afterward  she  looked  back  upon  as  a  sort  of  night- 
mare, she  kept  Rosie  always  beside  her.  Looking  in  her 
darling's  face — the  little  fragile  flower  which  had  blos- 
somed into  strength  under  her  care,  the  piece  of  white 
paper  upon  which  any  careless  hand  might  have  scribbled 
any  thing,  to  remain  indelible  through  life  —  then  Aunt 
Hannah  took  heart  even  in  her  misery.  She  could  have 
done  no  wrong,  since,  whatever  happened  to  herself,  she 
had  saved,  by  coming  to  Easterham,  the  child. 

On  the  second  Saturday  of  Mr.  Rivers's  absence  Hannah 
was  sitting  on  the  floor  with  Rosie,  in  the  drawing-room, 
between  the  lights.  It  had  been  a  long,  wet,  winter  day, 
and  had  begun  with  a  perplexing  visit  fi'om  tlie  church- 

G 


146  HANNAH. 

warden,  wanting  to  know  if  the  vicar  had  come  home, 
and,  if  not,  what  must  be  done  for  Sunday.  Hannah  had 
had  no  letter,  and  could  not  tell ;  could  only  suggest  that 
a  neighboring  clergyman  might  probably  have  to  be  sent 
for,  and  arrange  who  it  should  be.  And  the  vexed  look 
of  the  old  church-warden,  a  respectable  farmer;  a  certain 
wonder  he  showed  at  his  principal's  long  absence — "so 
very  unlike  our  parson  " — together  with  a  slight  incivility 
to  herself,  which  Hannah,  so  fearfully  observant  now,  fan- 
cied she  detected  in  his  manner,  made  her  restless  and  un- 
happy for  hours  after.  N^ot  till  she  had  Rosie  beside  her, 
and  drank  of  the  divine  lethe-cup  which  infant  hands  al- 
ways bring,  did  the  painful  impression  subside.  Now,  in 
the  peace  of  firelight  within,  and  a  last  amber  gleam  of 
rainy  sunset  without,  she  and  Rosie  had  the  world  all  to 
themselves ;  tiny  fingers  curled  tightly  round  hers,  with 
the  sweet,  imperative  "Tannic,  tum  here!"  and  a  little 
blue  and  white  fairy  held  out  its  mushroom-like  frock, 
with  "  Rosie  dance.  Tannic  sing  !"  And  Tannic  did  sing, 
with  a  clearness  and  cheerfulness  long  foreign  to  her 
voice ;  yet  she  had  had  a  sweet  voice  when  she  was  a  girl. 
When  this,  her  daily  business  of  delight,  came,  the  tempt- 
ing spirits,  half  angel,  half  demon,  which  had  begun  to 
play  at  hide-and-seek  through  the  empty  chambers  of 
poor  Hannah's  heart,  fled  away,  exorcised  by  that  magic 
spell  which  Heaven  gives  to  every  house  that  owns  a 
child. 

She  was  sitting  there,  going  through  "  Mary,  Mary,  quite 
contrary,"  "  Banbury  Cross,"  the  history  of  the  young  gen- 
tleman who  "put  in  his  thumbs  and  pulled  out  the  plums," 
with  other  noble  nursery  traditions— all  sung  to  tunes  com- 
posed on  the  spot,  in  that  sweet,  clear  soprano  which  al- 
ways made  Rosie  put  up  her  small  fingers  with  a  mysteri- 
ous "  Hark !  Tannie's  singing  !"  when  a  ring  came  to  the 
door-bell. 

Hannah's  heart  almost  stopped  beating.  Should  she 
fly?  Then  there  was  a  familiar  voice  in  the  hall,  and  Ro- 
eie  ^lJrickcd  out  in  an  ecstasy,  "Papa  come!  papa  come!" 


HANNAH.  147 

Should  she  hide  ?  Or  should  she  stay,  with  the  child  be- 
side her,  a  barrier  against  evil  eyes  and  tongues  without 
and  miserable  thoughts  within?  Yes,  that  was  the  best 
thing,  and  Hannah  did  it. 

Mr.  Rivers  came  in ;  and,  shaking  hands  with  his  sister- 
in-law,  took  his  little  girl  in  his  arms.  Rosie  clung  to 
him  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.  She,  too,  had  not  forgotten 
papa. 

"  I  thought  she  would  forget,"  he  said.  "  Baby  memo- 
ries are  short  enough." 

"  But  Rosie  is  not  a  baby ;  and  papa  has  only  been  away 
eleven  days." 

Eleven  days ! — then  he  would  know  she  had  counted 
them.  As  soon  as  the  words  were  uttered  Hannah  could 
have  bitten  her  tongue  out  with  shame. 

But  no ;  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  them,  or  any  thing 
but  his  little  girl.  He  set  Rosie  on  his  lap,  and  began 
playing  with  her,  but  fitfully  and  absently.  He  looked 
cold,  pale,  ill.    At  last  he  said,  in  a  pathetic  kind  of  way : 

"Hannah,  I  wish  you  would  give  me  a  glass  of  wine.  I 
am  so  tired." 

And  the  eyes  which  were  lifted  up  to  hers  for  a  minute 
had  in  them  a  world  of  weariness  and  sadness.  They 
drove  out  of  Hannah's  mind  all  thoughts  of  how  and  why 
she  and  he  had  parted,  and  what  might  happen  now  they 
met,  and  threw  her  back  into  the  old  domestic  relationship 
between  them.  She  took  out  her  keys,  got  him  food  and 
drink,  and  watched  him  take  both  and  revive  after  them 
with  almost  her  old  pleasure.  Nay,  she  scarcely  missed 
the  old  affectionate  "Thank  you,  Hannah,  you  are  so 
good,"  which  never  came. 

Presently,  when  Rosie,  growing  too  restless  for  him,  was 
dismissed  with  the  customary  "  Do  take  her.  Aunt  Hannah, 
nobody  can  manage  her  but  you,"  Hannah  carried  the  lit- 
tle one  to  bed,  and  so  disappeared,  not  a  word  or  look  hav- 
ing been  exchanged  between  them  except  about  the  child. 
Still,  as  she  left  him  sitting  in  his  arm-chair  by  his  own 
fireside,  which  he  said  he  found  so  "  cozy,"  she,  like  little 


148  UANNAU. 

Rosie,  was  conscious  of  but  one  feeling  —  gladness  that 
papa  was  come  home. 

At  dinner,  too,  how  the  whole  table  looked  bright,  now 
that  the  master's  place  was  no  longer  vacant !  Hannah 
resumed  hers ;  and,  in  spite  of  the  servant's  haunting  eyes 
and  greedy  ears,  on  the  watch  for  every  look  and  word 
that  passed  between  these  two  innocent  sinners,  there  was 
a  certain  peace  and  content  in  going  back  to  the  old  ways 
once  more. 

When  they  were  left  alone  together,  over  dessert,  Mr. 
Rivers  looked  round  the  cheerful  room,  saying,  half  to 
himself,  "  How  comfortable  it  is  to  be  at  home !"  and  then 
smiled  across  the  table  to  her,  as  if  saying  mutely  what  he 
had  said  in  words  a  hundred  times,  that  it  was  she  who 
made  his  home  so  comfortable.  And  Hannah  smiled  in 
return,  forgetting  every  thing  except  the  pleasantness  of 
having  him  back  again — the  pure  delight  and  rest  in  one 
another's  society  which  is  at  the  root  of  all  true  friend- 
ship, all  deep  love.  They  did  not  talk  much ;  indeed,  talk- 
ing seemed  dangerous;  but  they  sat  a  long  time  in  their 
opposite  seats,  as  they  had  sat  day  after  day  for  so  many 
months,  trying  to  think,  feel,  and  speak  the  same  as  here- 
tofore. 

But  it  was  in  vain.  In  this,  as  in  all  false  positions,  the 
light  once  admitted  could  never  again  be  hidden  from ;  the 
door  once  open  could  never  be  shut. 

Mr.  Rivers  proposed  going  to  the  drawing-room  at  once. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you;  and  here  the  servants  might  be 
coming  in." 

Hannah  blushed  violently,  and  then  hated  herself  for  do- 
ing so.  Why  should  she  be  afraid  of  the  servants  coming 
in  ?  Why  tremble  because  he  "  wanted  to  talk  to  her  ?" 
Such  a  common  occurrence — a  bit  of  their  every-day  life, 
which  went  on,  and  must  go  on,  externally,  just  the  same 
as  before. 

So  she  rose,  and  they  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

It  was  the  prettiest  room  in  the  house  ;  full  of  every 
thing  tliat  a  man  of  taste  and  refinement  could  desire,  in 


HANNAH.  149 

order  to  make — and  it  does  help  to  make — a  happy  home. 
Yet  the  master  of  it  looked  round  with  infinite  sadness  in 
his  eyes,  as  if  it  gave  him  no  pleasure,  as  if  he  hardly 
saw  it. 

"Hannah,"  he  said  at  last,  when  they  had  gone  through 
the  form  of  tea,  and  she  had  taken  her  work — another 
empty  form,  for  her  hands  shook  so  she  could  hardly  thread 
her  needles—"  Hannah,  I  had  better  not  put  off  my  busi- 
ness with  you — my  message  to  you,  rather.  You  must  un- 
derstand I  fulfill  it  simply  as  a  matter  of  duty.  I  hope 
you  will  not  be  offended  ?" 

"I  offended?" 

"  You  ought  not  to  be,  I  think,  in  any  case.  No  lady 
should  take  offense  because  an  honest  man  presumes  to 
love  her.  But  I  may  as  well  speak  out  plainly.  My  friend 
Morecamb — " 

"  Oh,  is  it  that  matter  again  ?  I  thought  I  was  to  hear 
no  more  of  it." 

"  You  never  would  have  done  so  from  me,  but  circum- 
stances have  altered  a  little,  and  I  have  been  overborne  by 
the  opinion  of  others." 

"What  others?" 

"Lady  Rivers"  (Hannah  started  angrily).  "To  her, 
wisely  or  foolishly,  Morecamb  has  appealed;  and,  by  her 
advice,  has  again  written  to  me.  They  both  put  it  to  me 
that  it  is  my  duty,  as  your  brother-in-law,  once  more  to 
lay  the  matter  before  you,  and  beg  you  to  reconsider  your 
decision.  His  letter — which  I  do  not  offer  to  show  you, 
for  he  might  not  like  it,  and,  besides,  there  are  things  said 
in  it  to  myself  which  none  but  a  very  old  friend  would 
venture  to  say — his  letter  is  thoroughly  straightforward, 
manly,  and  generous.  It  makes  me  think,  for  the  first 
time,  that  he  is  almost  worthy  of  you.  In  it  he  says — 
may  I  repeat  to  you  what  he  says?" 

Hannah  bent  her  head. 

"  That  his  conviction  of  your  w^orth  and  his  attachment 
to  yourself  are  such,  that  if  you  will  only  allow  him  to 
love  you  he  shall  be  satisfied,  and  trust  to  time  for  the  rest. 


150  HANNAH. 

He  entreats  you  to  marry  him  at  once,  and  let  him  take 
you  from  Easterham,  and  place  you  in  the  position  which, 
as  his  wife,  you  would,  of  course,  have,  and  which  he 
knows — we  all  know — you  would  so  worthily  fill." 

Bernard  had  said  all  this  like  a  person  speaking  by  rote, 
repeating  carefully  and  literally  all  that  he  had  before 
planned  to  say,  and  afraid  of  committing  himself  by  the 
alteration  of  a  word.  Now  he  paused,  and  waited  for  an 
answer. 

It  came  not. 

"  He  desires  me  to  tell  you  that,  besides  the  Rectory, 
he  has  a  good  private  income ;  that  his  two  daughters  are 
both  married ;  and  that,  in  case  of  his  death,  you  will  be 
well  provided  for.  It  is  a  pleasant  parish  and  a  charming 
house.  You  would  have  a  peaceful  home,  away,  and  yet 
not  very  far  away,  from  Easterham.  You  might  see  Rosie 
every  week — " 

Here  Hannah  turned  slowly  round,  and  for  the  first  time 
Bernard  saw  her  face. 

"  Good  Heavens  !"  he  cried.  "  What  have  I  done  ?  I 
meant  no  harm — Morecamb  meant  no  harm." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  m  a  hard,  dry  tone.  "  He  meant — 
I  quite  understand  it,  you  see,  and,  since  I  understand  it, 
why  should  I  not  speak  of  it  ? — he  meant  to  stop  the  mouths 
of  Easterham  by  marrying  me,  and  taking  me  away  from 
your  house.     He  is  exceedingly  kind — and  you  also." 

"I?— oh,  Hannah!— I?" 

"  Why  distress  yourself?  Do  I  not  say  you  are  exceed- 
ingly kind  ?" 

But  she  seemed  hardly  to  know  what  she  was  saying. 
Her  horrible,  humiliating  position  between  her  brother-in- 
law  and  her  brother-in-law's  friend,  the  one  having  unwill- 
ingly affixed  the  stain  upon  her  name,  which  the  other  was 
generously  trying  to  remove,  burst  upon  her  with  an  agony 
untold. 

"Why  did  I  ever  come  here?  Why  were  you  so  cruel 
as  to  ask  me  to  come  here  ?  I  came  in  all  innocence.  I 
knew  nothing.     You,  a  man,  ought  to  have  known." 


HANNAH.  151 

He  turned  deadly  pale. 

"  You  mean  to  say  I  ought  to  have  known  that,  although 
the  law  considers  you  my  sister,  you  are  not  ray  sister,  and 
our  living  together  as  w^e  do  would  expose  us  to  remarks 
such  as  James  Dixon  made  the  other  night.  Most  true; 
1  ought  to  have  known.  Was  that  all  ?  or  did  you  mean 
any  thing  more  than  that  ?" 

"  IN'othing  more.  Is  not  that  enough  ?  Oh,  it  is  dread- 
ful— dreadful  for  an  innocent  woman  to  have  to  bear !" 

And  her  self-control  quite  gone,  Hannah  rocked  herself 
to  and  fro ;  in  such  a  passion  of  grief  as  she  had  never  let 
any  one  witness  in  her  since  she  was  a  child.  For,  indeed, 
woman  as  she  was,  she  felt  weak  as  a  child. 

But  the  man  was  weaker  still.  Once — twice  he  made  a 
movement  as  if  he  would  dart  across  the  hearth  to  where 
she  sat,  but  restrained  himself,  and  remained  motionless 
in  his  seat — attempting  no  consolation.  What  consolation 
could  he  give  ?  It  was  he  himself  who  had  brought  this 
slander  upon  her — how  cruel  and  how  wide-spread  it  was 
he  by  this  time  knew,  even  better  than  she. 

"Hannah,"  he  said,  after  a  little,  "we  are  neither  of  us 
young  people,  to  take  fright  at  shadows.  Let  us  speak 
openly  together,  as  if  we  were  two  strangers,  viewing  the 
case  of  two  other  strangers,  placed  in  the  same  relation 
together  as  ourselves." 

"  Speak !  How  can  I  speak  ?  I  am  utterly  helpless,  and 
you  know  it.  Lady  Rivers  knows  it  too ;  and  so,  doubt- 
less, does  Mr.  Morecamb.  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  should  be 
wisest  to  accept  his  generous  offer  and  marry  him." 

Bernard  started,  and  then  composed  himself  into  the 
same  formal  manner  with  which  he  had  conducted  the 
whole  conversation. 

"  Yes,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  it  would  be  wise ;  I, 
speaking  as  your  brother-in-law,  am  bound  to  tell  you  so. 
I  wish  to  do  my  duty  by  you ;  I  have  no  right  to  allow  my 
own  or  my  child's  interest  to  stand  in  the  way  of  your 
happiness."  He  paused.  "  I  wish  you  to  be  happy — God 
knows  I  do !"     He  paused  again.     "  Then-^what  answer 


152  HANNAH. 

am  I  to  give  to  Morecamb?  Am  I  to  tell  him  to  come 
here  and  speak  for  himself?" 

"  No  !"  Hannah  burst  out  vehemently.  "  JSTo — a  thou- 
sand times  no !  My  heart  is  my  own,  and  he  has  not  got 
it.  If  I  were  a  beggar  starving  in  the  streets,  or  a  poor 
wretch  whom  every  body  pointed  the  finger  at — as  per- 
haps they  do — I  would  not  marry  Mr.  Morecamb." 

A  strange  light  came  into  Bernard's  eyes. 

"  That's  Hannah  !  There  speaks  my  good,  true  Hannah ! 
I  thought  she  had  gone  away,  and  some  other  woman  come 
in  her  place.  Forgive  me  !  I  did  my  duty ;  but  oh,  it  was 
hard !     I  am  so  glad,  so  glad !" 

He  spoke  with  his  old,  affectionate, boyish  impulsiveness; 
he  was  still  exceedingly  boyish  in  some  things,  and  perhaps 
Hannah  liked  him  the  better  for  it — who  knows?  Even 
now  a  faint  smile  passed  over  her  lips. 

"  You  ought  to  have  known  me  better.  You  ought  to 
have  been  sure  that  I  would  not  marry  any  man  without 
loving  him.  And  I  told  you  long  ago  that  I  did  not  love 
Mr.  Morecamb." 

"  You  did ;  but  people  sometimes  change  their  minds. 
And  love  comes,  we  know  not  how.  It  begins — just  a 
little  seed,  as  it  were — and  grows,  and  grows,  till  all  of  a 
sudden  we  find  it  a  full-grown  plant,  and  we  can  not  root 
it  up,  however  we  try." 

He  spoke  dreamily,  and  as  if  he  had  forgotten  all  about 
Mr.  Morecamb,  then  sat  down  and  began  gazing  into  the 
fire  with  that  dull,  apathetic  look  so  familiar  to  Hannah 
during  the  early  time  of  her  residence  there,  when  she 
knew  him  little,  and  cared  for  him  less ;  when,  if  any  one 
had  told  her  there  would  come  to  her  such  a  day  as  this 
day,  when  every  word  of  the  sentence  he  had  just  uttered 
w^ould  fall  on  her  heart  like  a  drop  of  burning  lead,  she 
would  have  pronounced  it  impossible — ridiculously  impos- 
sible. Yet  she. was  true  then — true  now — to  herself  and 
to  all  others ;  perfectly  candid  and  sincere.  But  would 
the  world  ever  believe  it?  Does  the  world,  so  ready  to 
find  out  double  or  interested  motives,  ever  believe  in  con- 


HANNAH.  153 

scientious  turncoats,  righteous  renegades  ?    Yet  there  are 
such  things. 

After  a  while  Mr.  Rivers  suddenly  aroused  himself. 

"I  am  thinking  of  other  matters,  and  forgetting  my 
friend.  I  had  better  put  the  good  man  out  of  his  pain  by 
telling  him  the  truth  at  once,  had  I  not,  Hannah  ?" 

«  Certainly." 

"  Your  decision  is  quite  irrevocable  ?" 

"  Quite." 

"  Then  we  need  say  no  more.  I  will  write  the  letter  at 
once." 

But  that  seemed  not  so  easily  done  as  said.  After  half 
an  hour  or  more  he  came  back  with  it  unfinished  in  his  hand. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  say  what  you  wish  me  to  say. 
A  mere  blank  No,  without  any  reasons  given.  Are  there 
none  which  could  make  the  blow  fall  lighter  ?  Remember, 
the  man  loves  you,  Hannah,  and  love  is  a  precious  thing." 

"I  know  it  is,  when  one  has  love  to  give  back;  but  I 
have  none.     Not  an  atom." 

"  Why  not  ?  I  beg  your  pardon — I  ought  not  to  ask — 
I  have  not  the  slightest  right  to  ask.  Still,  as  I  have 
sometimes  thought,  a  woman  seldom  lives  thirty  years 
without — without  some  sort  of  attachment  ?" 

Hannah  became  much  agitated.  Rosa,  then,  had  kept 
sisterly  faith,  even  toward  her  own  husband.  Mr.  Rivers 
evidently  knew  nothing  about  Arthur ;  had  been  all  along 
quite  unaware  of  that  sad  but  sacred  story,  which  Hannah 
thought  sheltered  her  just  as  much  as  widow's  weeds  might 
have  done. 

She  hesitated,  and  then,  in  her  misery,  she  clung  to  the 
past  as  a  kind  of  refuge  from  the  present. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  it,"  she  answered,  very  slowly ; 
and  quickly,  "  I  thought  Rosa  had  told  you.  If  it  will 
lessen  his  pain,  you  may  tell  Mr.  Morecamb  that  once  I 
was  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  cousin  of  mine.  He  was 
ill :  they  sent  him  away  to  Madeira,  and  there  he  died." 

"  He  —  I  did  not  quite  hear."  For,  indeed,  Hannah's 
words  were  all  but  inaudible. 

G2 


154  HANNAH. 

"He  died!" 

She  had  said  it  out  now,  and  Bernard  knew  the  whole. 
Those  two  silent  ghosts,  of  his  dead  wife  and  her  own 
dead  lover,  seemed  to  come  and  stand  near  them  in  the 
quiet  room.  Was  it  with  looks  of  sorrow  or  anger? — if 
the  dead  can  feel  either.  Arthur — Rosa — in  their  lives 
both  so  loving,  unselfish,  and  dear.  Was  it  of  them  that 
the  living  needed  to  be  afraid  ? 

Mr.  Rivers  seemed  not  afraid,  only  exceedingly  and  pain- 
fully surprised. 

"  I  had  no  idea  of  such  a  thing,  or  I  would  never  have 
urged  Mr.  Morecamb's  plea.  And  yet,  tell  me,  Hannah,  is 
this  lost  love  the  only  cause  of  your  refusing  him  ?  Was 
this  what  you  referred  to  when  you  once  said  to  me,  or 
implied,  that  you  would  never  marry  any  body  ?  Is  all 
your  heart,  your  warm,  true,  womanly  heart,  buried  in 
your  cousin's  grave  ?" 

There  may  be  circumstances  in  which  people  are  justi- 
fied in  telling  a  noble  lie ;  but  Hannah  was  not  the  woman 
to  do  it.  Not  though  it  would  at  once  have  placed  her 
beyond  the  reach  of  misconstruction,  saved  her  from  all 
others,  and  from  herself — encompassed  her  henceforward 
with  a  permanent  shield.  Though  one  little  "  Yes  "  would 
have  accomplished  all  this,  she  could  not  say  it,  for  she  felt 
it  would  have  been  a  lie — a  lie  to  Heaven  and  to  her  own 
soul.  She  looked  down  on  the  floor,  and  answered,  delib- 
erately, "  No  !" 

But  the  eflTort  took  all  her  strength,  and  when  it  was 
over  she  rose  up  totteringly,  and  tried  to  feel  her  way  to 
the  door.  Mr.  Rivers  opened  it,  not  making  the  least  ef- 
fort to  detain  her. 

"  Good-night !"  she  said,  as  she  passed  him.  He,  with- 
out even  an  ofiered  hand,  said  "  Good-night "  too ;  and  so 
they  parted. 


155 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Hanistah's  waking  up  in  the  morning  after  her  brother- 
in-law's  return  was  one  of  the  most  painful  sensations  she 
had  ever  known,  the  more  so  as  it  was  so  unusual.  To 
her  healthy  temperament  the  morning  hour  was  generally 
the  best  of  the  day.  Not  Rosie  herself,  who  always  woke 
up  as  lively  as  a  young  linnet  in  a  thorn-bush,  enjoyed  it 
more  than  Aunt  Hannah  did.  But  now  things  seemed 
changed.  She  had  gone  to  bed  at  once,  and  fallen  asleep 
immediately ;  for  there  are  times  when  the  brain,  worn  out 
by  long  tension,  collapses  the  instant  we  lie  down — I^ature 
forcing  upon  it  the  temporary  stupefaction  which  is  its 
only  preservative. 

Now  even  she  could  not  shake  off  weariness,  nor  rise  as 
usual  to  look  at  one  of  those  glorious  winter  sunrises 
which  only  active  people  see.  She  dreaded  the  dawn; 
she  shrank  from  the  sun,  for  he  brought  her  her  daily  du- 
ties ;  and  how  she  should  ever  fulfill  them  as  heretofore 
she  could  not  tell. 

First,  how  should  she  again  meet  Mr.  Rivers  ?  What 
position  should  she  hold  toward  him?  Had  her  sister 
lived,  he  would  have  been  to  her  nothing  at  all :  regarded 
with  the  sacred  indifference  with  which  every  pure-minded 
woman  regards  every  other  woman's  husband.  Now, 
what  was  he?  Not  her  brother — except  by  a  legal  fic- 
tion, which  he  had  himself  recognized  as  a  fiction.  Not 
her  lover ;  and  yet  when  she  recalled  his  looks  and  tones, 
and  a  certain  indescribable  agitation  which  had  been  upon 
him  all  the  evening,  some  feminine  instinct  told  her  that, 
under  other  circumstances,  he  might  have  become  her 
lover.  Her  husband  he  could  never  be ;  and  yet  she  had 
to  go  on  living  with  him  in  an  anomalous  relationship 
which  was  a  compound  of  all  these  three  ties,  with  the  dif- 


153  HANNAH. 

ficulties  of  all  and  the  comfort  of  none.  Her  friend  lie 
was ;  that  bond  seemed  clear  and  plain ;  but  then  is  it 
customary  for  a  lady  to  go  and  keep  the  house  of  a  male 
"  friend,"  be  he  ever  so  tried  and  trusted  ?  Society,  to  say 
nothing  of  her  own  feelings,  would  never  allow  it ;  and  for 
once  society  is  in  the  right. 

Hannah  felt  it  so — felt  that,  stripping  off  the  imaginary 
brother-and-sister  bond,  Bernard  and  she  were  exactly  in 
the  position  of  a  lady  and  gentleman  living  together  in 
those  Platonic  relations  which  are  possible  certainly,  but 
which  the  wicked  world  never  believes  to  be  possible,  and 
which  Nature  herself  rejects  as  being  out  of  the  ordinary 
course  of  things,  and  therefore  very  unadvisable.  A  life 
difficult  enough  to  carry  on  even  if  the  parties  were  calmly 
indifferent  to  one  another ;  but  what  if  they  were  not  indif- 
ferent ?  Though  he  had  never  "  made  love  "  to  her  in  the 
smallest  degree,  never  caressed  her  even  in  the  harmless 
salutations  which  brothers  and  sisters  in  law  so  commonly 
indulge  in,  still  Hannah  must  have  been  dull  indeed  not 
to  have  long  since  found  out  that  in  some  way  or  other 
Bernard  was  very  fond  of  her ;  and  a  young  man  is  not 
usually  "  very  fond  "  of  a  woman  not  his  own  born  sister 
without  sooner  or  later  wishing  to  monopolize  her — to 
have  her  all  to  himself:  in  plain  terms,  to  marry  her.  And 
though  women  have  much  less  of  this  exclusive  feeling — 
though  many  a  woman  will  go  on  innocently  adoring  a  man 
for  years  without  the  slightest  wish  of  personal  appropria- 
tion— still,  when  somebody  else  appropriates  him — marries 
him,  in  short — and  the  relations  are  changed,  and  she 
drops  into  a  common  friend,  or  less  than  a  friend,  then 
even  the  noblest  and  most  unselfish  woman  living  will  feel 
for  a  time  a  slight  pang,  a  blank  in  her  life,  a  soreness  at 
her  heart.  It  is  Nature's  revenge  upon  all  shams,  how- 
ever innocent  those  shams  may  be. 

And  poor  Hannah  was  reaping  Nature's  revenge  now. 
Whether  he  did  or  did  not  love  her  in  a  brotherly  way, 
she  was  cruelly  conscious  that  to  go  on  living  with  her 
brother-in-law  as  heretofore  would  be  a  very  severe  trial. 


HANXAII.  157 

Should  she  fly  from  it?  The  way  was  open.  She  could 
write  to  Lady  Dunsmore,  who  she  knew  was  again  in 
search  of  a  governess,  and  would  gladly  welcome  her  back. 
Two  days,  or  one  day  even,  and  she  might  resume  her  old 
life,  her  old  duties,  and  forget  this  year  and  a  half  at  East- 
erham  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

For  a  moment  the  temptation  was  strong.  She  felt 
hunted  down,  like  the  Israelites,  with  the  Egyptians  be- 
hind and  the  Red  Sea  before — the  dreadful,  surging  sea  of 
the  future,  over  which  there  seemed  no  pathway,  no  possi- 
ble way  of  crossing  it,  to  any  safe  shore.  If  she  could  but 
escape,  with  her  reputation  clear,  out  of  her  brother-in-law's 
house ! — that  House  on  the  Hill  which  had  been  so  pleas- 
ant, which  she  had  tried  to  make  a  sort  of  home-beacon  to 
all  the  parish;  and  now  all  the  parish  leveled  at  it  their 
cruel  stares,  their  malignant  comments,  for  it  was  exposed 
to  all.  For  Bernard's  sake,  as  well  as  her  own,  she  ought 
to  save  him  from  this,  free  him  from  her  blighting  pres- 
ence, and  go. 

As  she  lay  thinking,  turning  over  in  her  mind  how  best 
to  accomplish  this — when  she  should  write  and  what  she 
should  say  to  Lady  Dunsmore — there  came  the  usual  little 
knock  at  her  door,  the  usual  sound  of  tiny  bare  feet  trot- 
ting over  the  carpet,  and  the  burst  of  joyous  child-laugh- 
ter at  her  bedside.  And  when  she  hardly  noticed  it,  for 
it  pierced  her  like  a  sword,  there  came  a  loud  wail.  "  Tan- 
nic, take  her !  Take  Rosie  in  Tannie's  arms."  Poor  Tan- 
nic sprang  up,  and  felt  that  all  her  well-woven  plans  were 
torn  down  like  spider  webs.  To  go  away  and  leave  her 
child  !     The  thing  was  impossible. 

Our  lives,  like  the  year,  go  through  a  succession  of  sea- 
sons, which  riiay  come  early  or  late,  but  come  in  regular 
order.  We  do  not  find  fruit  in  March  or  primroses  in  Au- 
gust. Thus,  though  Hannah's  heart  now,  strangely  stirred 
as  it  was,  had  a  primrose  breath  of  spring  quivering  through 
it,  it  was  not  exactly  the  heart  of  a  girl.  She  was  a  wom- 
an of  thirty,  and  though  she  loved — alas,  she  knew  it  now 
only  too  well ! — she  did  not  love  romantically,  absorbingly. 


158  HANNAH. 

Besides,  coexistent  with  this  love  had  come  to  her  that 
other  sentiment,  usually  of  much  later  growth — the  mater- 
nal instinct — which  in  her  was  a  passion  too.  Bernard's 
one  rival,  and  no  small  one,  was  his  own  little  child. 

As  Hannah  pressed  Rosie  to  her  bosom  all  her  vague  ter- 
rors, her  equally  dreadful  delights,  faded  away  into  quiet 
realities,  and  by  the  time  she  had  had  the  child  with  her 
for  an  hour  she  felt  quite  herself  again,  and  was  able  to 
carry  Rosie  down  to  the  Sunday  breakfast-table,  where 
the  small  woman  had  lately  begun  to  appear,  conducting 
herself  like  a  little  princess. 

Oh,  what  a  blessing  she  was !  the  pretty  little  maid ! 
How  her  funny  ways,  her  wonderful  attempts  at  English, 
and  her  irresistible  bursts  of  laughter  smoothed  over  diffi- 
culties untold,  and  helped  them  through  that  painful  hour 
— those  two,  who  stood  to  the  little  one  like  father  and 
mother,  and  yet  to  one  another  were  nothing,  and  never 
could  be.  This  was  the  strange  anomaly  of  their  relation- 
ship, that  while  Rosie  was  her  own  flesh  and  blood,  closer 
to  her  than  any  child  not  her  very  own  could  possibly  be, 
with  Rosie's  father  there  was  no  tie  of  blood  at  all. 

Then  usual  Sunday  morning  routine  went  on — prayers, 
breakfast,  after  breakfast  play  with  Rosie — yet  neither 
Hannah  nor  Bernard  ventured  once  to  look  at  each  other, 
lest  they  should  betray  the  piteous  secret  which — whether 
or  not  hers  did — the  deadly  paleness  of  Bernard's  features 
and  his  nervous,  excited  manner  only  too  much  revealed. 

"  I  scarcely  slept  an  hour,"  he  said.  "  I  had  to  sit  up 
and  write  my  sermon.  And  I  found  so  much  to  do  among 
my  papers.     I  must  never  leave  home  again." 

She  was  silent. 

Then  he  asked  her  if  she  were  going  to  church — an  idle 
question  for  one  who  never  missed  church  in  any  weather. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  want  her  to  go  ?  And  she  would  have 
been  angry  but  for  the  strange  compassion  she  always  had 
for  him — the  feeling  that  if  any  trouble  came  to  him  she 
should  always  like  to  bear  it  herself  And  now  he  had 
more  to  bear  than  she.     He  must  go  up  into  his  pulpit 


HANNAH.  159 

and  preach,  conscious  that  all  eyes  were  watching  him,  all 
tongues  gossiping  concerning  him.  For  in  Easterham 
nothing  was  hid ;  rich  and  poor  alike  chattered  of  their 
neighbors'  affairs ;  and  James  Dixon's  visit  to  the  House 
on  the  Hill,  in  all  its  particulars,  was  likely  to  be  as  fully 
known  as  Mr.  Morecamb's  interview  with  Lady  Rivers, 
and  its  purport  as  regarded  Hannah  herself. 

The  Moat  House,  too,  must  be  faced,  for  at  breakfast- 
time  a  note  had  come  asking  them  to  dine  there,  though 
it  was  Sunday,  as  young  Mrs.  Melville  had  come  over  for 
the  day,  and  particularly  wished  to  see  Miss  Thelluson. 

"You  will  go?"  Bernard  had  said,  passing  the  note 
over  to  her.  Her  first  instinct  had  been  a  decided  "  no ;" 
till,  looking  down  on  the  bright  little  face  beside  her.  Aunt 
Hannah  felt  that,  at  whatever  cost,  she  must  boldly  show 
her  own — at  church,  at  the  Moat  House,  anywhere  and 
everywhere.  There  were  just  two  courses  open  to  her — 
to  succumb  to  the  lie,  or  to  meet  it  and  trample  it  down. 
So,  again  taking  Rosie  in  her  arms,  she  looked  up  fearless- 
ly at  Rosie's  father. 

"Yes,  since  Lady  Rivers  asks  me,  I  will  certainly  go." 

It  was  Hannah's  custom  to  get  ready  for  church  quite 
early,  that  she  might  walk  with  Bernard  thither:  he  dis- 
liked walking  alone.  Never  was  there  a  man  who  clung 
more  affectionately  to  companionship,  or  to  whom  it  was 
more  necessary.  But  this  Sunday  he  never  summoned  her, 
so  she  did  not  come.  Indeed,  she  had  determined  not. 
She  watched  him  start  off  alone,  and  then  followed,  going 
a  longer  way  round,  so  that  she  only  reached  her  pew 
when  he  reached  his  reading-desk.  Then  the  sad  tone  of 
his  voice  as  he  read,  evidently  with  an  effort,  the  sentence, 
"  If  we  say  that  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive  ourselves," 
-etc.,  went  to  her  heart. 

Were  they  sinners  ?  Was  it  a  crime  for  her  to  look  now 
at  her  dead  sister's  husband,  her  living  Rosie's  father,  and 
think  that  his  was  one  of  the  sweetest,  noblest  faces  she 
had  ever  seen  ?  that  had  she  met  him  by  chance,  and  he 
had  cared  for  her,  she  could  have  tended  him  like  a  moth- 


160  HANNAH. 

er,  served  him  like  a  slave ;  nay,  have  forgotten  for  his  sake 
that  sacred  dream  of  so  many  years,  the  lost  love  of  her 
girlhood,  and  become  an  ordinary  human  wife  and  mother 
— Rosie's  mother  ?  And  it  would  all  have  seemed  so  right 
and  natural,  and  they  three  would  have  been  so  happy. 
Could  it  be  a  sin  now?  Could  any  possible  interpreta- 
tion, secular  or  religious,  construe  it  into  a  sin  ? 

Poor  Hannah !  Even  in  God's  house  these  thoughts 
pursued  her ;  for,  as  before  said,  her  only  law  of  conduct 
was  how  things  were,  not  in  the  sight  of  man,  but  of  God. 
That  love,  which  was  either  a  righteous  affection  or  a  dead- 
ly sin,  could  she  once  assure  herself  that  He  did  not  forbid 
it,  little  she  cared  whether  man  forbade  it  or  not ;  nor,  if  it 
were  holy,  whether  it  were  a  happy  love  or  not. 

Thus,  during  her  solitary  walk  home,  and  a  long,  soli- 
tary afternoon  that  she  spent  with  Rosie  —  earning  that 
wonderful  rest  of  mind  and  fatigue  of  body  which  the 
companionship  of  a  child  always  brings — her  thoughts 
grew  clearer.  Rosa's  very  spirit,  which  now  and  then 
looked  strangely  out  of  her  daughter's  eyes,  seemed  to 
say  to  her  that  the  dead  view  all  things  with  larger  vis- 
ion than  ours ;  that  in  their  passing  away  they  have  left 
all  small  jealousies  behind  them,  and  remember  only  the 
good  of  their  beloved — not  themselves  at  all. 

"  Oh,  Rosa,  Rosa !"  Hannah  thought  to  herself,  "  surely 
you  are  not  angry  with  me,  not  even  now  ?  I  am  not 
stepping  into  your  place  and  stealing  away  your  joys !  I 
have  only  tried  to  fulfill  your  duties  toward  this  little  one 
and  toward  him.  You  know  how  helpless  he  is  alone ! 
And  his  pretty  lamb — I  have  to  take  care  of  them  both. 
Rosie,  my  darling,  who  could  ever  love  you  like  Tannic  ? 
Yet  they  say  it  is  all  unnatural  and  wrong:  that  any 
strange  woman  would  be  a  better  mother  to  you  than  I ! 
But  that  is  false,  altogether  false.  When  your  own  moth- 
er comes  to  look  at  you,  as  she  may  do  every  night — I 
would,  if  I  were  a  happy  ghost  and  God  would  let  me — 
Rosie,  look  at  her  and  tell  her  so !" 

These  wild  and  wandering  thoughts,  the  last  of  which 


HANNAH.  161 

had  been  said  out  loud,  must  have  brought  a  correspond- 
ing expression  to  Hannah's  face,  for  the  child  caught  it, 
and  fixing  on  her  aunt  that  deep,  wise,  almost  supernatu- 
ral gaze  she  sometimes  had,  answered,  deliberately,  "  Yes." 
For  "No" — given  with  a  sweet  decisiveness,  as  if  she  al- 
ready knew  her  own  mind,  the  baby  ! — and  a  gentle,  satis- 
fied "  Yes,"  were  among  the  earliest  accomplishments  of 
that  two-year-old  darling. 

But  when  Rosie  was  put  to  bed,  and  left  wide  awake 
in  her  little  crib,  fearless  of  darkness  or  any  thing  under 
Tannie's  "  lots  of  tisses  " — left  to  curl  round  and  fall  asleep 
in  the  blessed  peace  of  infancy,  innocent  of  all  earthly 
cares — then  this  world's  bitterness  darkened  down  again 
upon  poor  Aunt  Hannah.  She  went  to  dress  for  the  Moat 
House  dinner,  and  prepare  to  join  the  family  circle,  where 
she,  always  an  uncomfortable  excrescence,  was  now  re- 
garded—  How  and  in  what  light  did  they  regard  her? 
Hannah  could  not  tell;  she  was  going  there  in  order  to 
find  out. 

Of  one  thing  she  was  sure ;  the  invitation  was  not  given 
out  of  pure  kindness.  Kindness  was  not  the  habit  of  the 
Rivers  family ;  they  generally  had  a  purpose  in  all  they 
did.  More  than  once  lately  Lady  Rivers  had  told  her,  in 
as  plain  terms  as  so  polite  a  person  could,  that  she — Han- 
nah— stood  in  the  way  of  her  brother-in-law's  marriage ; 
that  his  family  wished  him  married,  and  she  ought  to  aid 
them  in  every  possible  way  toward  that  desirable  end. 
Could  there  be  a  plan  formed  for  lecturing  her  on  this 
point  ? 

But  no.  Bernard  would  never  have  allowed  it.  And 
if  he  had,  Hannah  would  not  have  turned  back ;  she  had 
always  faced  her  fate,  this  solitary  woman ;  and  as  she 
now  walked  alone  in  the  early  winter  darkness  through 
Easterham  village,  she  braced  up  her  courage  and  faced  it 
still. 

Externally  there  seemed  nothing  to  face ;  only  a  bright, 
pleasant  drawing-room,  and  a  circle  of  charming,  well- 
dressed  women,  whose  conversation  suddenly  paused  at 


162  HANNAH. 

her  entrance,  as  if  they  had  been  talking  her  over,  femi- 
nine fashion,  which  no  doubt  they  had.  Hannah  was  sure 
of  it.  She  knew  the  way  they  used  to  talk  over  other  peo- 
ple— the  Melville  family  above  all,  till  Adeline  belonged 
to  it — with  that  sweet  acerbity  and  smooth  maliciousness 
which  only  women  understand.  A  man's  weapons  smite 
keen,  but  they  generally  smite  straight  forward.  Women 
only  give  the  underhand  thrusts,  of  which  Hannah  that 
night  had  not  a  few. 

"  What  a  long,  dark  walk.  Miss  Thelluson ;  only  you 
never  mind  dark  walks.  Were  you  really  quite  alone? 
And  what  has  become  of  Bernard?  for  you  generally 
know  all  his  proceedings.  We  thought  him  looking  so 
well  —  so  much  the  better  for  going  from  home.  But 
what  can  he  have  done  with  himself  since  church-time  ? 
Are  you  quite  sure  that — " 

The  question  was  stopped  by  Bernard's  entrance — ten 
minutes  after  the  dinner-hour,  of  which  Sir  Austin  bitterly 
complained  to  his  son ;  and  then  offered  his  arm  to  Han- 
nah, who  stood,  silent  and  painfully  conscious,  under  the 
battery  of  four  pairs  of  feminine  family  eyes. 

"I  have  been  home  to  fetch  Miss  Thelluson,"  said  Ber- 
nard.— "Hannah,  you  should  not  have  walked  here  alone." 

And  he  would  have  taken  a  seat  beside  her,  but  Lady 
Rivers  signed  for  Bertha  to  occupy  it.  Fenced  in  by  a 
sister  on  each  side,  he  had  not  a  chance  of  a  word  with 
Hannah  all  dinner-time. 

It  was  the  same  thing  afterward.  Miss  Thelluson  would 
have  been  amused,  if  she  had  not  been  a  little  vexed  and 
annoyed,  to  see  herself  thus  protected,  like  an  heiress  in 
her  teens,  from  every  approach  of  the  obnoxious  party. 
Mother  and  daughters  mounted  guard  successively,  keep- 
ing her  always  engaged  in  conversation,  and  subjecting 
Bernard  to  a  sort  of  affectionate  imprisonment,  whence, 
once  or  twice,  he  vainly  tried  to  escape.  She  saw  it,  for 
somehow,  without  intending  it,  she  always  saw  him  every- 
where, and  was  conscious  that  he  saw  her,  and  listened  to 
every  word  she  was  saying.     Yet  she  made  no  effort  to 


HANNAH.  1G3 

get  near  him,  not  even  when  she  noticed  him  surreptitious- 
ly take  out  his  watch  and  look  at  it  wearily,  as  if  entreat- 
ing, "  Do  let  us  go  home."  Every  simple  word  and  act 
of  a  month  ago  had  a  meaning,  a  dreadful  meaning,  now. 

Hannah  was  not  exactly  a  proud  woman,  but  she  had  a 
quiet  dignity  of  her  own,  and  it  was  sorely  tried  this  night. 
Twenty  times  she  would  have  started  up  from  the  smooth, 
polite  circle,  feeling  that  she  could  support  it  no  longer, 
save  for  Bernard's  sad,  appealing  face  and  his  never-end- 
ing endurance.  But  then  they  loved  him  in  their  own 
way,  and  they  were  his  "  people,"  and  he  bore  from  them 
what  he  w^ould  never  have  borne  from  strangers.  So 
must  she. 

So  she  took  refuge  beside  Adeline's  sofa.  Young  Mrs. 
Melville  had  never  been  well  since  her  marriage;  they 
said  the  low  situation  of  Melville  Grange  did  not  agree 
with  her.  And  ill  health  being  quite  at  a  discount  among 
the  Rivers  girls,  who  were  as  strong  as  elephants,  Adeline 
lay  rather  neglected,  watching  her  husband  laughing  and 
talking  with  her  sisters — flirting  with  them,  people  might 
have  said,  almost  as  much  as  before  he  was  married;  only, 
being  a  brother  now,  of  course  it  did  not  matter.  Never- 
theless, there  was  at  times  a  slight  contraction  of  the 
young  wife's  brow,  as  if  she  did  not  altogether  like  it. 
But  she  laughed  it  off  at  once. 

"Herbert  is  so  merry,  and  so  fond  of  coming  here. 
Our  girls  amuse  him  much  more  than  his  own  sisters,  he 
says.  Just  listen  how  they  are  all  laughing  together 
now." 

"  It  is  good  to  laugh,"  said  Hannah,  quietly. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  am  glad  they  enjoy  themselves,"  returned 
Adeline,  and  changed  the  conversation  :  but  through  it  all 
the  pale,  vexed  face,  the  anxious  eyes,  heavy  with  an  un- 
spoken anger,  an  annoyance  that  could  not  be  complained 
of,  struck  Hannah  with  pity.  Here,  she  thought,  was  a 
false  position  too. 

At  nine  the  butler  came  in,  announcing,  formally, 
"Miss  Thelluson's  servant." 


164  HANNAH. 

"  It  is  Grace.  I  told  her  to  call  for  me  on  her  way  from 
chapel.     I  wished  to  go  home  early." 

"And  without  Bernard?  I  understand.  Very  right; 
very  nice,"  whispered  Lady  Rivers,  in  a  tone  of  such  pat- 
ronizing approval  that  Hannah  repented  herself  of  having 
thus  planned,  and  was  half  inclined  to  call  Mr.  Rivers  out 
of  the  dining-room  and  tell  him  she  was  going.  But  she 
did  not.  She  only  rose  and  bade  them  all  good-night. 
Not  one  rough  word  had  broken  the  smooth  surface  of  po- 
lite conversation ;  yet  she  was  fully  aware  that  though, 
with  that  convenient  plastering  over  of  sore  or  ugly  places 
peculiar  to  the  Rivers  family,  they  said  nothing,  they  all 
knew  well,  and  knew  that  she  knew  they  knew,  why  she 
was  going,  and  the  instant  her  back  was  turned  would 
talk  her  over  to  their  hearts'  content.  Yet  she  walked 
out  of  the  room  slowly,  calmly,  with  that  dignified,  lady- 
like presence  she  had — almost  better  than  beauty.  Yes, 
even  though  she  saw  Lady  Rivers  rise  to  accompany  her 
up  stairs — apiece  of  condescension  so  great  that  there  was 
surely  some  purpose  in  it.  Lady  Rivers  seldom  took  trou- 
ble without  a  purpose. 

Yet  for  a  moment  she  hesitated,  sat  pulling  her  rings 
off  and  on,  and  eying  with  her  critical,  woman-of-the-world 
gaze  this  other  woman,  who  fulfilled  the  apostolic  law  of 
being  in  the  world,  not  of  it.  The  long  strain  of  the  even- 
ing had  worn  Hannah  out,  and  she  was  in  doubt  whether 
Bernard  would  like  her  stealing  off  thus — whether,  since 
Lady  Rivers  thought  it  "wise,"  it  really  was  not  most  un- 
wise, thus  to  condense  the  cloudy  scandal  into  shape  by 
paying  it  the  respect  of  acceptance.  As  she  tied  her  bon- 
net her  hands  trembled  a  little. 

"Are  you  ready  ?  Then,  Miss  Thelluson,  may  I  say  just 
one  word  before  you  go?  As  a  married  lady  and  the 
mother  of  a  family,  speaking  to  a  young — no,  not  exactly 
a  young,  but  an  unmarried — person,  may  I  ask  is  it  true 
what  I  hear,  that  you  have  had  a  definite  offer  of  marriage 
from  Mr.  Morecamb  ?" 

Hannah  started  indignantly,  and  then  composed  herself. 


HANNAH.  165 

"  I  do  not  quite  see  that  the  matter  concerns  any  one 
but  myself  and  Mr.  Morecamb.  But  since  you  have  heard 
this,  I  conclude  he  has  told  you.     Yes,  it  is  true." 

"And  what  answer  did  you  give?  You  may  as  well 
tell  me,  for  he  will ;  he  is  coming  here  to-morrow." 

Hannah  waited  a  moment.  "  I  have  given  the  only  an- 
swer I  could  give — Xo." 

Lady  Rivers  sprang  from  her  chair.  "  Good  Heavens ! 
Are  you  mad?  My  dear  Miss  Thelluson,  I  beg  your 
pardon;  but  really — to  refuse  such  an  offer!  If  Mr. 
Morecamb  had  come  and  asked  me  for  one  of  my  own 
daughters,  I  would  at  least  have  considered  the  mat- 
ter. To  one  in  your  position,  and  under  present  circum- 
stances— " 

"Excuse  me.  Lady  Rivers;  but  I  am  myself  the  best 
judge  of  my  own  position  and  circumstances." 

"  So  gentlemanly  of  him,  too — so  honorable — when  he 
knew,  as  every  body  knows,  the  way  you  are  being  talked 
about !" 

"He  did  know,  then — "  and  Hannah  checked  herself. 
"  Will  you  oblige  me  by  telling  me  what  he  knew  ?  How 
am  I  being  talked  about?"  And  she  turned  her  face, 
white  as  that  of  a  traveler  who  walks  up  to  face  a  supposed 
ghost  by  a  church-yard  wall;  shuddering,  but  still  facing- 
it.     It  may  be  only  a  dead  tree  after  all. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Lady  Rivers;  and  no  doubt 
she  was,  for  she  disliked  saying  unpleasant  things,  except 
in  a  covert  way.  "  It  is  a  most  awkward  matter  to  speak 
about,  and  I  have  kept  it  from  the  girls  as  long  as  possi- 
ble ;  but  people  say  in  Easterham  that  it  was  not  for  noth- 
ing you  took  part  with  that  unfortunate  Grace — Dixon  I 
can't  call  her,  as  she  has  no  right  to  the  name.  In  fact,  I 
have  heard  it  suggested  plainly  enough  that  the  reason  of 
Bernard's  not  marrying  is  because,  were  it  not  for  the  law, 
he  would  like  to  marry  you." 

Hannah  stood  silent.  All  the  blood  in  her  heart  seemed 
to  stand  still  too. 

"  We  do  not  believe  it,  of  course.     ISTeithcr  docs  Mr, 


1G6  HANNAH. 

Morecamb.  Still  it  is  generally  believed  at  Easterham — 
and  worse  things,  too." 

"  What  worse  things  ?    Tell  me.     I  insist  upon  hearing." 

Hannah  spoke,  as  she  had  listened,  with  a  desperate 
calmness ;  for  she  felt  that  at  all  costs  she  must  get  to  the 
bottom  of  the  scandal — must  know  exactly  how  much  she 
had  to  fight  against,  and  whom. 

"Miss  Thelluson,  you  are  the  very  oddest  person  I  ever 
knew.  Well,  they  say  that — that —  Excuse  me,  but  I 
really  don't  know  how  to  tell  you." 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you ;  for  I  heard  James  Dixon  say  it, 
and  before  my  own  servants — as,  of  course,  you  know ; 
every  body  knows  every  thing  in  Easterham.  They  say, 
these  wicked  neighbors,  that  I,  a  woman  not  young,  not 
pretty,  not  attractive  in  any  way,  with  her  dead  sister's 
memory  yet  fresh  in  her  heart,  and  her  dead  sister's  child 
in  her  arms,  am  living  in  unlawful  relations  with  that  sis- 
ter's husband.  Lady  Rivers,  I  do  not  wonder  that  you 
shrink  from  repeating  such  an  atrocious  lie." 

The  other  was  a  little  confounded.  She  had  been  so 
very  patronizing,  so  condescendingly  kind  in  her  manner, 
to  this  poor  Miss  Thelluson,  who  now  stood  and  looked  at 
her  face  to  face,  as  much  a  lady  as  herself,  and  ten  times 
more  of  a  woman.  Nay,  the  fire  in  the  gray  eyes,  the  dig- 
nity of  the  figure,  made  Hannah  for  the  moment  even  a 
handsome  woman,  handsome  enough  to  be  admired  by 
many  a  man. 

"  Pray  don't  talk  of  lies,  Miss  Thelluson.  We  object  to 
such  an  ugly  word  out  of  the  school-room — where,  how- 
ever, your  experience  must  chiefly  have  lain.  This  is  what 
made  me  resolve  to  speak  to  you.  You  can  not  be  ex- 
pected to  know  the  world,  nor  how  important  it  is  for 
Bernard,  as  a  gentleman  and  a  clergyman,  that  this  gossip 
should  be  stopped  at  once.  Of  course  I  only  refer  to  the 
nonsense  about  his  wishing  to  marry  you.  For  the  rest, 
his  own  character — the  character  of  the  family — is  enough 
denial.  Still,  the  thing  is  unpleasant,  very  unpleasant,  and 
I  don't  wonder  that  Bernard  feels  it  acutely." 


HANNAH.  167 

Hannah  started.     " Does  he ?    Did  he  tell  you  so?" 

"  IS'ot  exactly ;  he  is  a  very  reserved  person,  as  we  all 
know ;  but  he  looks  thoroughly  wretched.  We,  his  family, 
see  that,  though  you,  a  stranger,  may  not.  The  fact  is,  he 
has  placed  himself,  quite  against  our  advice,  in  a  most  dif- 
ficult and  painful  position,  and  does  not  know  how  to  get 
out  of  it.  You  ought  to  help  him,  as,  most  providentially, 
you  have  now  the  means  of  doing." 

Hannah  looked  up.  She  was  being  pricked  to  death 
with  needles ;  but  still  she  looked  firmly  in  the  face  of  her 
adversary,  and  asked,  "  How  ?" 

"  Do  you  not  see,  my  dear  Miss  Thelluson,  that  every  bit 
of  gossip  and  scandal  would  necessarily  die  out  if  you 
married  Mr.  Morecamb  ?" 

Hannah  was  but  human.  For  a  moment  the  thought  of 
escape — of  flying  out  of  this  maze  of  misery  into  a  quiet 
home,  where  a  good  man's  love  would  at  least  be  hers — 
presented  itself  to  her  mind,  tempting  her,  as  many  anoth- 
er woman  has  been  tempted,  into  marriage  without  love. 
But  immediately  her  honest  soul  recoiled. 

"  Lady  Kivers,  I  would  do  a  great  deal  for  my  brother- 
in-law,  who  has  been  very  kind  to  me ;  but  not  even  for 
his  sake — since  you  put  it  so — can  I  marry  Mr.  Morecamb. 
And  now  " — turning  round  with  sudden  heat — "  since  you 
have  said  all  you  wanted  to  say,  and  I  have  answered  it, 
will  you  let  me  go  home  ?" 

Home !  As  she  uttered  the  word,  ending  thus  the  con- 
versation as  quietly,  to  all  appearance,  as  it  had  begun — 
though  she  knew  it  had  been  all  a  planned  attack,  and  that 
the  ladies  down  stairs  were  all  waiting  eagerly  to  hear 
the  result  of  it — as  she  spoke  of  home,  Hannah  felt  what  a 
farce  it  was.  Had  it  been  a  real  brother's  home,  there  at 
least  was  external  protection.  So  likewise  was  there  in 
that  other  home,  which,  when  she  had  saved  enough,  she 
had  one  day  meant  to  have — some  tiny  cottage,  where  by 
her  own  conduct  a  single  woman  can  always  protect  her- 
self, keep  up  her  own  dignity,  and  carry  out,  if  ever  so 
humbly,  her  own  independent  life.      ISTov/  this  was  lost, 


1G3  HANNAH. 

and  the  other  not  gained.  As  she  walked  on  toward  the 
House  on  the  Hill, that  cruel  "home"  where  she  and  Ber- 
nard must  live  henceforward,  as  if  in  a  house  of  glass,  ex- 
posed to  every  malicious  eye,  Hannah  felt  that  somehow 
or  other  she  had  made  a  terrible  mistake.  Almost  as  great 
a  one  as  that  of  the  poor  girl  who  walked  silently  by  her 
side,  asking  no  questions — Grace  never  did  ask  any — but 
simply  following  her  mistress  with  tender,  observant,  un- 
ceasing care. 

"Don't  let  us  go  through  the  village,"  whispered  she. 
"I'll  take  you  round  a  nearer  way,  where  there  are  not 
half  so  many  folk  about." 

"  Very  well,  Grace ;  only  let  us  get  home  quickly.  You 
are  not  afraid  of  meeting  any  body?" 

For  Jem  Dixon  was  still  at  Easterham,  she  knew,  though 
nothing  had  been  seen  of  him  since  that  night. 

"  No,  no,"  sighed  Grace;  "  nobody  will  trouble  me.  The 
master  frightened  him,  I  think.  My  sister  told  me  the 
master  did  really  speak  to  the  police  about  him,  in  case  he 
should  trouble  us  while  he  was  away.  Look,  Miss  Thel- 
luson,  there  he  is." 

Not  Jem  Dixon,  but  Mr.  Rivers ;  yet  Hannah  instinct- 
ively shrank  back  under  the  shadow  of  a  high  wall,  and  let 
him  pass  her  by.  She  made  no  explanation  to  her  serv- 
ant for  this ;  what  could  she  say  ?  And  Grace  seemed  to 
guess  it  all  without  her  telling. 

It  was  a  bitter  humiliation,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pain. 
As  she  bade  Grace  keep  close  to  her,  while  they  hurried 
along  by  narrow  alleys  and  cross-cuts,  the  thought  of  that 
happy  walk  home  under  the  stars,  scarcely  a  fortnight  ago, 
came  back  to  Hannah's  mind.  Alas !  such  could  never 
be  again.  Their  halcyon  days  were  done.  In  her  imagin- 
ary wickedness,  her  sinless  shame,  she  almost  felt  as  if  she 
could  understand  the  agony  of  a  real  sin — of  a  woman  who 
loves  some  other  woman's  husband,  or  some  man  besides 
her  own  husband — any  of  those  dreadful  stories  which  she 
had  heard  of  afar  off,  but  had  never  seemed  to  realize. 
Once  no  power  of  will  could  put  her  in  the  place  of  these 


HANNAH.  169 

miserable  sinners ;  now,  perhaps,  she  was  as  miserable  a 
sinner  as  any  one  of  them  all. 

When  reaching  the  gate  she  saw  Mr.  Kivers  standing 
there  waiting.  She  drew  back  as  if  it  were  really  so — as 
if  it  were  a  sin  for  him  to  be  watching  for  her,  as  he  evi- 
dently was,  with  the  kindly  tenderness  of  old. 

"  Hannah,  how  could  you  think  of  starting  off  alone  ? 
You  make  me  miserable  by  such  vagaries." 

He  spoke  angrily — that  fond  anger  which  betrays  so 
much;  and  when  he  found  he  had  betrayed  it  to  more 
than  herself,  he  too  started. 

"  I  did  not  know  Grace  was  with  you.  That  alters  the 
case  a  little.  Grace,  take  Miss  Thelluson's  wet  cloak  off, 
and  tell  the  servants  to  come  at  once  to  prayers." 

He  was  wise  and  kind.  Hannah  recognized  that,  in  spite 
of  the  bitter  feeling  that  it  should  be  necessary  for  him  to 
be  wise  and  kind.  She  came  into  his  study  after  all  the 
servants  were  assembled  there ;  and  as  she  knelt  near  him, 
listening  to  the  short  service  customary  on  Sunday  nights, 
her  spirit  grew  calmer.  No  one  could  hear  Bernard  Riv- 
ers, either  in  his  pulpit,  as  that  morning,  or  among  his  lit- 
tle household  congregation,  as  now,  without  an  instinctive 
certainty  that  he  was  one  of  the  "  pure  in  heart,"  who  are 
forever  "  blessed." 

The  servants  gone,  he  and  she  stood  by  the  fire  alone. 
There  was  a  strange  look  upon  both  their  faces,  as  if  of  a 
storm  past  or  a  storm  brooding.  Since  this  time  last  night, 
when,  after  her  sore  confession  was  wrung  from  her,  Han- 
nah had  tottered  away  out  of  the  room,  she  and  her  broth- 
er-in-law had  never  been  one  minute  alone  together,  nor 
had  exchanged  any  but  the  briefest  and  most  common- 
place words.  They  did  not  now.  They  just  stood  one  on 
either  side  the  fire — so  near,  yet  so  apart. 

A  couple  that  any  outside  observer  would  have  judged 
well  suited.  Both  in  the  prime  of  life ;  yet,  though  he  was 
a  little  the  younger,  he  did  not  seem  so,  more  especially  of 
late,  since  he  had  grown  so  worn  and  anxious-looking.  Both 
pleasant  to  behold,  though  he  had  more  of  actual  phys- 

H 


1*70  HANNAH. 

ical  beauty  than  she ;  but  Hannah  had  a  spiritual  charm 
about  her  such  as  few  handsome  women  possess.  And 
both  were  at  that  season  of  life  when,  though  boy  and  girl 
fancies  are  over,  the  calm,  deep  love  of  mature  years  is  at 
its  meridian,  and  a  passion  conceived  then  usually  lasts 
for  life.  And  these  two,  with  every  compulsion  to  love, 
from  within  and  without,  pressing  hard  upon  them — re- 
spect, tenderness,  habit,  familiarity — with  no  law,  natural 
or  divine,  forbidding  that  love,  in  case  it  should  arise  be- 
tween them,  had  to  stand  there,  man  and  woman,  brother 
and  sister,  so  called,  and  ignore  and  suppress  it  all. 

That  there  was  something  to  be  suppressed  showed 
plainly  enough.  In  neither  was  the  free-hearted  uncon- 
sciousness which,  when  an  accusation  is  wholly  untrue, 
laughs  at  it,  and  passes  it  by.  Neither  looked  toward  the 
other;  they  stood  both  gazing  wistfully  into  the  fire  until 
the  silence  became  intolerable.  Then  Hannah,  but  with- 
out extending  her  hand  as  usual,  bade  him  "  Good-night," 

"Good-night?     Why  so?" 

"  1  am  going  up  stairs  to  look  at  Rosie." 

"I  believe  if  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end  in  half 
an  hour,  you  would  still  be  'going  up  stairs  to  look  at 
Rosie.'  " 

That  excessive  irritability  which  always  came  when  he 
was  mentally  disturbed,  and  had  been  heavy  upon  him  in 
the  early  time  of  his  sorrow,  seemed  revived  again.  He 
could  not  help  it ;  and  then  he  was  so  mournfully  contrite 
for  it. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  Hannah  !  I  am  growing  a  perfect  bear 
to  you.  Come  down  stairs  again  and  talk  to  me.  For  we 
must  speak  out.  We  can  not  go  on  like  this ;  it  will  drive 
me  wild.  We  must  come  to  some  conclusion  or  other. 
Make  haste  back,  and  we  will  speak  together,  just  as 
friends,  and  decide  what  it  shall  be." 

Alas !  Avhat  could  it  be  ?  Every  side  she  looked,  Han- 
nah saw  no  path  out  of  the  maze.  'Not  even  when,  see- 
ing that  Grace  sat  reading  her  Bible  by  the  nursery  fire 
a^Grace  was  a  gentle,  earnest  Methodist,  very  religious 


HANNAH.  171 

in  her  own  fashion — she  sat  down  beside  her  living  Bi- 
ble, her  visible  revelation  of  Him  who  was  once,  like 
Rosie,  a  Christmas  child,  and  tried  to  think  the  matter 
quietly  out,  to  prepare  herself  humbly  for  being  led,  not 
in  her  own  way,  but  in  God's  way :  the  more,  as  it  was 
not  her  own  happiness  she  sought,  but  that  of  those  two 
committed  to  her  charge  in  so  strange  a  manner  —  the 
man  being  almost  as  helpless  and  as  dependent  upon  her 
as  the  child.  For  she  had  not  lived  with  Bernard  thus 
long  without  discovering  all  his  weaknesses,  which  were 
the  very  points  upon  which  she  knew  herself  most  strong, 
"When  he  called — as  he  did  twenty  times  a  day — "  Han- 
nah, help  me !"  she  was  fully  conscious  that  she  did  and 
could  help  him  better  than  any  one  else.  Did  she  like  him 
the  less  for  this  ?  Most  w^omen — especially  those  who  have 
the  motherly  instinct  strongly  developed — will  find  no  dif- 
ficulty in  answering  the  question. 

How  peaceful  the  nursery  was — so  warm  and  safe  and 
still !  Not  a  sound  but  the  clock  ticking  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  the  wind  murmuring  outside,  and  the  soft  breath- 
ing out  of  that  darkened  corner,  where,  snuggled  down  un- 
der the  bedclothes,  with  the  round  little  head  and  its  cir- 
cle of  bright  hair  just  peeping  above,  "Tannie's  wee  dor- 
mouse," as  she  sometimes  called  her,  slept  her  sound,  in- 
nocent sleep. 

Aunt  Hannah  bent  over  her  darling  with  a  wild  con- 
striction of  the  heart.  What  if  the  "conclusion"  to  which 
Mr.  Rivers  said  they  must  come  to-night  implied  her  going 
away — leaving  Rosie  behind  ?  The  thought  was  too  much 
to  bear. 

"I  will  not — I  will  not !  God  gave  me  the  child;  God 
only  shall  take  her  from  me  !" 

And  rushing  to  her  own  room,  she  vainly  tried  to  com- 
pose herself  before  appearing  in  Rosie's  father's  sight.  In 
vain.  His  quick  eye  detected  at  once  that  she  had  been 
crying ;  he  said  so,  and  then  her  tears  burst  out  afresh. 

"  I  am  so  miserable — so  miserable !  Don't  send  me 
away;  don't  take  Rosie  from  me.     I  can  bear  any  thing 


172  HANNAH. 

but  that.    It  would  break  my  heart  if  I  had  to  part  from 
my  child !" 

He  answered  calmly — was  it  also  a  little  coldly  ? — 

"  Don't  distress  yourself,  Hannah  ;  I  had  no  thought  of 
taking  Kosie  from  you.  I  promised  you  she  should  be  all 
your  own,  and  I  mean  to  keep  my  word." 

"Thank  you." 

She  dried  her  tears,  though  she  was,  indeed,  strangely 
excited  still;  and  they  sat  down  for  that  serious  talk  to- 
gether, which  was  to  have — who  knew  what  end  ? 

The  beginning  was  not  easy,  though  Bernard  did  begin 
at  once. 

"I  shall  not  detain  you  long,  though  it  is  still  early. 
But  I  must  have  a  few  words  with  you.  First,  to  apolo- 
gize for  a  question  I  put  to  you  last  night,  which  I  now 
feel  was  intrusive  and  wrong." 

Which  question — that  about  Mr.  Morecamb,  or  the  final 
one,  which  she  had  answered  with  such  sore  truthfulness — 
he  did  not  say,  and  she  did  not  inquire. 

Bernard  continued : 

"  Let  us  put  that  matter  aside,  and  speak  only  of  our 
own  present  affairs.  I  want  you  to  give  me  your  advice 
on  a  point  in  which  a  woman  is  a  better  judge  than  any 
man ;  especially  as  it  concerns  a  woman." 

A  woman  ?  Hannah  leaped  at  once  to  the  heart  of  the 
mystery,  if  mystery  it  were.  Her  only  course  was  to  solve 
it  without  delay. 

"  Is  it  your  possible  marriage  ?" 

"  It  is.     Not  my  love,  understand ;  only  my  marriage." 

They  were  silent — he  watching  her  keenly.  Hannah 
felt  it,  and  set  her  face  like  a  stone.  She  seemed,  indeed, 
growing  into  stone. 

"My  family — as  they  may  have  told  you,  for  they  tell 
it  to  all  Easterham — are  most  anxious  I  should  marry. 
They  have  even  been  so  kind  as  to  name  to  me  the  lady, 
whom,  as  we  both  know  her,  I  will  not  name,  except  to 
say  that  she  is  very  young,  very  pretty,  very  rich ;  ful- 
fills all  conditions  they  desire  for  mc,  not  one  of  which  I 


HANNAH.  173 

desire  for  myself.  Also,  they  tell  me — though  I  scarcely 
believe  this — that  if  I  asked  her,  she  would  not  refuse 
me." 

"  You  have  not  asked  her,  then  ?" 

"  If  I  had,  there  would  be  little  need  for  the  questions  I 
wished  to  put  to  you.  First,  what  is  your  feeling  about 
second  marriages  ?" 

"I  thought  you  knew  it.  I  must  surely  have  said  it  to 
you  some  time  ?" 

"  You  never  have ;  say  it,  then." 

Why  should  she  not?  Nothing  tied  her  tongue  now. 
The  end  she  had  once  hoped  for,  then  doubted,  then  feared, 
was  evidently  at  hand.  He  was,  after  all,  going  to  marry. 
In  a  totally  unexpected  way  her  path  was  being  made 
plain. 

Hannah  was  not  a  girl,  and  her  self-control  was  great. 
Besides,  she  had  suffered  so  much  of  late  that  even  the 
very  fact  of  an  end  to  the  suffering  was  relief  So  she 
spoke  out  as  if  she  were  not  herself,  but  somebody  else, 
standing  quite  apart  from  poor  Hannah  Thelluson — to 
whom  it  had  been  the  will  of  God  that  no  love-bliss  should 
ever  come. 

"  I  think,  with  women,  second  marriages  are  a  doubtful 
good.  If  the  first  one  has  been  happy,  we  desire  no  other 
— we  can  cherish  a  memory  and  sit  beside  a  grave  to  the 
last;  if  unhappy,  we  dread  renewing  our  unhappiness. 
Besides,  children  so  fill  up  a  woman's  heart  that  the  idea 
of  giving  her  little  ones  a  second  father  would  be  to  most 
women  very  painful,  nay,  intolerable.  But  with  men  it  is 
quite  different.  I  have  said  to  Lady  Rivers  many  a  time 
that  from  the  first  day  I  came  it  was  my  most  earnest  wish 
you  should  find  some  suitable  wife,  marry  her,  and  be  hap- 
py— as  happy  as  you  were  with  my  sister." 

"Thank  you." 

That  dreadful  formality  of  his — formality  and  bitterness 
combined !  And  Hannah  knew  his  manner  so  well ;  knew 
every  change  in  his  face — a  very  tell-tale  face.  Bernard 
was  none  of  your  reserved  heroes  who  are  always  "  wear- 


174  HANNAH. 

ing  a  mask."  Her  heart  yearned  over  him.  Alas !  she 
had  spoken  truly  when  she  said  it  was  not  buried  in  Ar- 
thur's grave.  It  was  quick  and  living — full  of  all  human 
affections  and  human  longings  still. 

"Then,  sister  Hannah,  I  have  your  full  consent  to  my 
marriage?  A  mere  manage  de  convenance^  as  I  told  you. 
Not  like  my  first  one-^ah,  my  poor  Rosa,  she  loved  me ! 
!N'o  woman  will  ever  love  me  so  well." 

Hannah  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  wrong  to  Rosa,  my  marry- 
ing again  ?" 

"Not  if  you  loved  again.    Men  do." 

"  And  not  women  ?    Do  you  mean  that  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know  what  I  mean  or  what  I  say,"  cried  Han- 
nah, piteously.  "It  is  all  so  strange,  so  bewildering. 
Tell  me  exactly  how  the  thing  stands  in  plain  words,  and 
let  me  go." 

"I  will  let  you  go;  I  will  trouble  you  no  more  about 
myself  or  my  affairs.  You  do  not  care  for  me,  Hannah ; 
you  only  care  for  the  child.  But  that  is  natural — quite 
natural.     I  was  a  fool  to  expect  any  more." 

Strange  words  for  a  man  to  say  to  a  woman  under  any 
other  feeling  than  one.  Hannah  began  to  tremble  vio- 
lently. 

"  What  could  you  expect  more  ?"  she  faltered.  "  Have 
I  not  done  my  duty  to  you — my  sisterly  duty?" 

"  We  are  not  brother  and  sister,  and  we  lie — we  lie  to 
our  own  souls — in  calling  ourselves  so." 

He  spoke  passionately ;  he  seized  her  hand,  then  begged 
her  pardon ;  suddenly  went  back  to  his  own  place,  and 
continued  the  conversation. 

"  We  are  neither  of  us  young,  Hannah — not  boy  and  girl, 
anyhow — and  we  have  been  close  friends  for  a  long  time. 
Let  us  speak  openly  together,  just  as  if  we  were  two  de- 
parted souls  looking  out  of  Paradise  at  ourselves — our  own 
selves — as  our  Rosa  may  be  looking  now." 

Our  Rosa !  It  went  to  Hannah's  heart.  The  tenderness 
of  the  man,  the  unforgetfulness — ah,  if  men  knew  how 


HANNAH.  1 75 

■women  prize  a  man  who  does  not  forget !  "  Yes,"  she  re- 
peated, softly,  "our  Rosa." 

"  Oh  that  it  were  she  who  was  judging  us,  not  these !" 

"Not  who?" 

"The  Moat  House — the  village — every  body.  It  is 
vain  for  us  to  shut  our  eyes,  or  our  lips  either.  Hannah, 
this  is  a  cruel  crisis,  for  you  and  me.  People  are  talking 
of  us  on  every  hand ;  taking  away  our  good  name,  even. 
James  Dixon's  is  not  the  only  wicked  tongue  in  the  world. 
It  is  terrible,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "At  least, 
not  so  terrible  but  that  I  can  bear  it." 

"  Can  you  ?  Then  I  ought  too.  And  yet  I  feel  so  weak. 
You  have  no  idea  what  I  have  suffered  of  late.  Within 
and  without,  nothing  but  suffering,  till  I  have  thought  the 
only  thing  to  do  was  to  obey  my  family's  wish,  and  marry. 
But  whether  I  marry  or  not,  the  thing  seems  plain — we 
can  not  go  on  living  as  we  have  done.  For  your  sake,  as 
well  as  my  own — for  they  tell  me  I  am  compromising  you 
cruelly — we  must  make  some  change.  Oh,  Hannah  !  what 
have  I  said,  what  have  I  done  ?" 

For  she  had  risen  up,  the  drooping  softness  of  her  atti- 
tude and  face  quite  gone. 

"I  understand  you.  You  need  not  explain  further. 
You  wish  me  to  leave  you.  So  I  will;  to-morrow  if  you 
choose ;  only  I  must  take  the  child  with  me.  I  will  have 
the  child,"  she  continued,  in  a  low,  desperate  voice.  "Do 
what  you  like,  marry  whom  you  like,  but  the  child  is  mine. 
Her  own  father  shall  not  take  her  from  me." 

" He  has  no  wish.     Her  unfortunate  father!" 

And  never  since  his  first  days  of  desolation  had  Han- 
nah seen  on  Bernard's  countenance  such  an  expression  of 
utter  despair. 

"  You  shall  settle  it  all,"  he  said ;  "  you  who  are  so  pru- 
dent and  wise  and  calm.     Think  for  me,  and  decide." 

"  What  am  I  to  think  or  decide  ?"  And  Hannah  vainly 
struggled  after  the  calmness  he  imputed  to  her.  "  How  can 
I  put  myself  in  your  place,  and  know  what  you  would  wish  ?" 


116  HANNAH. 

"  What  I  would  loish  !  Oh,  Hannah !  is  it  possible  you 
do  not  guess  ?" 

She  must  have  been  deaf  and  blind  not  to  have  guessed. 
Dumb  she  was — dumb  as  death — while  Bernard  went  on, 
speaking  :jvith  excited  rapidity : 

"  When  a  man's  wish  is  as  hopeless  and  unattainable  as 
a  child's  for  the  moon  he  had  better  not  utter  it.  I  have 
long  thought  this.  I  think  so  still.  Happy  in  this  world 
I  can  never  be;  but  what  would  make  me  least  unhappy 
would  be  to  go  on  living  as  we  do,  you  and  Rosie  and  I, 
if  such  a  thing  were  possible." 

"  Is  it  impossible  ?"  For  with  this  dumbness  of  death 
had  come  over  Hannah  also  the  peace  of  death — as  if  the 
struggle  of  living  were  over,  and  she  had  passed  into  an- 
other world.  She  knew  Bernard  loved  her,  though  they 
could  never  be  married,  no  more  than  the  angels.  Still  he 
loved  her.  She  was  content.  "  Is  it  impossible  ?"  she  re- 
peated, in  her  grave,  tender,  soothing  voice.  "  Evil  tongues 
would  die  out  in  time — the  innocent  are  always  stronger 
than  the  wicked.  And  our  great  safeguard  against  them 
is  such  a  life  as  yours  has  been.  You  can  have  almost  no 
enemies." 

"Ah !"  replied  he,  mournfully,  "  but  in  this  case  a  man's 
foes  are  they  of  his  own  household.  My  people — there  is 
no  fighting  against  them.  What  do  you  think — I  am  talk- 
ing to  you,  Hannah,  as  if  you  were  not  yourself,  but  some 
other  person — what  do  you  think  my  step-mother  said  to 
me  to-night?  That  unless  you  married  Mr.  Morecamb,  or 
I  Ellen  Melville  (there !  her  name  is  out,  but  no  matter) 
— unless  either  of  these  two  things  happened,  or  I  did  the 
other  wicked,  heart-breaking  thing  of  turning  you  out  of 
my  doors,  she  would  never  admit  you  again  into  hers. 
That,  in  fact,  to-night  is  the  last  time  you  will  be  received 
at  the  Moat  House." 

Hannah's  pride  rose.  "  So  be  it.  I  am  not  aware  that 
that  would  be  such  a  terrible  misfortune." 

"  You  unworldly  woman,  you  do  not  know !  Oh,  for- 
give me,  forgive  me,  Hannah;   I  am  forgetting  all  you 


HANNAH.  177 

must  feel.  I  am  speaking  to  you  as  if  you  were  my  con- 
science— my  very  own  soul — which  you  are." 

The  love  tliat  glowed  in  his  eyes,  the  emotion  that  trem- 
bled in  his  voice  !  Hannah  was  not  a  young  woman,  nor, 
naturally,  a  passionate  woman,  but  she  would  have  been  a 
stone  not  to  be  moved  now.  She  sat  down,  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  it  is  hard,  hard !"  she  sobbed.  "  When  we  might 
have  been  so  happy — we  and  our  child  !" 

Bernard  left  his  seat  and  came  closer  to  hers.  His 
breath  was  loud  and  fast,  and  his  hands,  as  he  took  Han- 
nah's, grasping  them  so  tight  that  she  could  not  unloose 
them,  though  she  faintly  tried,  were  shaking  much. 

"  Tell  me — I  never  believed  it  possible  till  now,  I  thought 
you  so  calm  and  cold,  and  you  knew  all  my  faults,  and  I 
have  been  harsh  to  you  often — only  too  often ! — but,  Han- 
nah, if  such  a  thing  could  be,  if  the  law  allowed  it — man's 
law,  for  God's  is  on  our  side — if  we  could  have  been  mar- 
ried, would  you  have  married  me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  putting  both  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  sad  solemnity,  as  of 
those  who  take  farewell  for  life  ;  "  yes,  I  would." 

Then,  before  he  had  time  to  answer,  Hannah  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  X. 


For  the  second  time  Hannah  fled  away  from  her  broth- 
er-in-law's presence  into  her  own  room,  and  tried  to  realize 
what  had  happened.  Something  which  would  forever  pre- 
vent their  two  lives  from  going  on  together  as  before — a 
distinct  mutual  acknowledgment  that  they  did  not  love 
one  another  like  brother  and  sister,  that  he  would  have 
married  her  if  he  could,  and  that  if  he  had  asked  her  she 
would  not  have  refused  him. 

This  confession  on  her  part  had  been  unintentional, 
WTung  from  her  by  the  emotion  of  the  time,  and  by  the 

H2 


178  HANNAH. 

direct  question  which  had  been  put  to  her,  and  Hannah 
was  the  kind  of  woman  who  never  thought  of  compromis- 
ing or  playing  with  the  truth.  Still,  when  it  was  made, 
and  henceforth  irrevocable,  it  startled  her.  Not  that  she 
felt  it  in  the  least  wrong ;  the  idea  that  to  love  or  marry 
her  sister's  husband  was  a  moral  offense  had  now  entirely 
left  her  mind ;  but  it  was  such  an  absolute  ignoring  of  her 
own  past — her  dear,  cherished,  sacred  past — that  it  at  first 
almost  overwhelmed  her.  She  sighed,  as  if  it  had  been  an 
unrequited  instead  of  a  fondly  sought  attachment  which 
she  had  confessed. 

For  it  had  crept  into  her  heart  unawares,  and  not  in  the 
ordinary  guise  of  love  at  all.  Pity,  affection,  the  tender 
habit  of  household  happiness,  had  drawn  her  day  by  day 
to  Rosie's  father,  chiefly  because  he  was  a  father  and  a 
widower,  scarcely  a  young  man  in  any  sense  regarding  her, 
supposing  she  had  considered  herself  still  a  young  woman, 
which  she  did  not.  It  was  only  when  her  youth  forced 
itself  up  like  an  imprisoned  stream,  when  the  great  outcry 
for  love  arose  and  would  be  heard,  that  Hannah  recognized 
how  painfully,  piteously  young  she  was  still. 

And  yet  in  one  sense  this  love  was  as  different  from  the 
love  of  her  girlhood  as  autumn  is  from  spring.  It  did  not 
seem  in  the  least  to  interfere  with  the  memory  of  Arthur. 
True,  she  had  been  only  eighteen  when  she  last  saw  his 
dear  face,  scarcely  twenty  when  he  died ;  but  Hannah  was 
one  of  those  sort  of  people  with  whom  to  be  "  off  with  the 
old  love  and  on  with  the  new"  was  a  thing  not  needing  ar- 
gument, it  was  simply  impossible.  She  had  never  dropped 
willingly  a  single  thread  of  love  in  her  life ;  the  threads 
which  God  had  broken  here  were  only  temporarily  invisi- 
ble ;  she  could  follow  them  still,  in  spirit,  to  the  unseen 
land.  Yet  to  her  intensely  constant  nature  any  change 
was  at  first  a  kind  of  pain. 

"Arthur,  Arthur !"  she  sighed,  and  kept  turning  his  ring 
round  and  round  upon  her  finger.  "  You  are  not  angry 
with  me  ?     I  could  not  help  it.     He  needed  me  so  !" 

Yes,  there  was  the  secret,  as  it  is  of  so  many  marriages, 


HANNAH.  179 

SO  many  lasting  loves:  people  become  necessary  to  one 
another  before  they  are  aware.  Propinquity,  circumstan- 
ces, do  a  great  deal;  but  more  is  done  by  the  strong, 
gradual,  inner  want,  the  sympathy  which  grows  day  by 
day,  the  trust  which,  feeling  its  way  step  by  step,  may  be 
slow  of  advancing,  but  never  retrogrades.  Whether  such 
a  love  be  as  perfect  as  the  real  passion,  "  first-born  and 
heir  to  all " — the  lovely  dream  of  youth  and  maidenhood, 
which  if  man  or  woman  ever  realizes  and  possesses  must 
be  the  crown  of  existence — I  do  not  say.  But  such  as  it 
is,  it  is  a  pure,  noble,  and  blessed  affection,  the  comfort  and 
refreshment  of  many  lives — that  is,  if  they  accept  it  as  it  is, 
and  do  not  try  to  make  it  what  it  never  can  be,  nor  seek 
to  find  among  the  August  roses  the  violets  of  the  spring. 

"Arthur,  Arthur !"  Hannah  sighed  once  again,  and  then 
said  to  herself,  in  a  solemn,  steadfast,  resolute  tenderness, 
the  name  she  had  never  yet  uttered,  even  in  thought,  for 
it  seemed  like  an  unconscious  appropriation  of  him — "My 
Bernard !" 

And  the  word  was  a  vow.  Not  exactly  a  love-vow, 
implying  and  expecting  unlimited  happiness — she  scarcely 
thought  of  happiness  at  all — but  a  vow  that  included  all 
duties,  all  tendernesses,  all  patience ;  a  pledge  such  as  a 
woman  makes  to  the  man  unto  whom  she  is  prepared  to 
resign  herself  and  her  own  individuality  for  life. 

It  was  a  change  so  sudden,  total,  and  overwhelming  that 
beyond  it  she  could  at  first  see  nothing,  did  not  recognize 
the  future  as  a  real  thing  at  all.  She  went  asleep  like  a 
person  half  bewildered,  and  woke  up  in  the  morning  con- 
fused still,  until  Rosie  came  in  as  usual,  while  Tannic  was 
dressing,  requiring  all  sorts  of  "pitty  sings  to  play  wid"  in 
her  usual  sweet  exactingness.  Then  slowly,  slowly,  Han- 
nah realized  all. 

"  My  darling,  my  darling  !  my  own  forever !"  cried  she, 
snatching  up  Rosie  in  a  passion  of  tenderness.  And  not 
even  Bernard's  fond  look  of  last  night,  as  he  put  to  her 
and  she  answered  that  solemn  question,  thrilled  to  Han- 
nah's heart  more  than  the  embrace  of  the  child. 


180  HANNAH. 

Carrying  the  little  one  in  her  arms,  she  went  down 
stairs  and  met  him  in  the  hall.  A  meeting  just  the  same 
as  on  all  mornings,  except  that  there  was  a  glow,  a  radi- 
ance almost,  in  his  countenance  which  she  had  never  seen 
before,  and  his  voice  whenever  he  addressed  her  had  a  rev- 
erential affectionateness  which  gave  meaning  to  his  light- 
est words.  Also  he  called  her  "  Hannah,"  never  "Aunt 
Hannah,"  again. 

There  is  a  pathos  in  all  love ;  what  must  there  be,  then, 
in  a  love  such  as  this,  conceived  in  spite  of  fate,  carried  on 
through  all  hinderances,  at  last  betrayed  rather  than  con- 
fessed, and  when  confessed  having  to  meet  the  dark  fu- 
ture, in  which  its  sole  reward  must  be  the  mere  act  of  lov- 
ing ?  These  two,  forbidden  by  destiny  to  woo  and  marry 
like  ordinary  people,  were  nevertheless  not  a  melancholy 
pair  of  lovers.  No  outward  eye  would  have  recognized 
them  as  lovers  at  all.  By  no  word  or  act  did  Bernard 
claim  his  rights,  the  happy  rights  of  a  man  to  whom  a 
woman  has  confessed  her  affection.  He  neither  kissed  her 
nor  said  one  fond  word  to  her.  'No  servant  coming  in  and 
out,  nor  even  the  innocent  little  tell-tale,  who  was  just  at 
that  age  when  she  was  sure  to  communicate  every  thing 
to  every  body,  could  have  suspected  any  thing  or  betrayed 
any  thing  concerning  these  two,  who  knew  they  were 
henceforward  not  two,  but  one  till  death. 

They  were  neither  afraid  nor  ashamed.  At  the  first 
sight  of  Bernard  every  lurking  feeling  of  shame  went  out 
of  Hannah's  heart.  Every  thought,  too,  as  if  her  loving 
the  living  were  a  wrong  to  the  dead.  Arthur's  ring  was 
still  on  her  finger,  Rosa's  sweet  face  still  smiled  from  over 
the  mantel-piece  upon  the  two  whom  in  life  she  had  loved 
best  in  the  world,  and  Rosa's  child  clung  fondly  unto  Tan- 
nie's  faithful  breast.  Hannah  shrank  from  none  of  these 
things,  nor  did  Bernard.  More  than  once  that  morning 
he  had' named,  incidentally  but  unhesitatingly,  his  child's 
mother,  calling  her,  as  he  always  did  from  this  day  for- 
ward, "our"  Rosa;  and  though  he  was  so  quiet,  he  went 
about  cheerfully,  as  he  had  not  done  for  long,  like  a  man 


HAKNAH.  181 

who  has  recovered  his  own  self-respect  and  his  interest  in 
life ;  to  whom  the  past  brings  no  pain,  and  the  future  no 
dread. 

Passion  is  a  weak  thing;  but  love,  pure  love,  is  the 
strongest  thing  on  earth ;  and  these  lovers  felt  it  to  be  so. 
Though  neither  said  a  word  beyond  the  merest  domestic 
commonplace,  there  was  a  peace,  a  restfulness  about  them 
both  which  each  saw  in  the  other,  and  rejoiced  to  see.  It 
was  like  calm  after  storm — ease  after  pain.  No  matter 
how  soon  the  storm  arose,  the  pain  begun  again — the  lull 
had  been  real  while  it  lasted. 

They  began  arranging  their  day's  work,  as  usual ;  work 
never  very  light.  This  Monday  there  seemed  more  to  set- 
tle than  ever. 

"What  should  I  do  without  you?"  said  Bernard. 
"  Such  a  wise,  sensible,  practical  woman  as  you  are !  al- 
ways busy,  and  yet  forgetting  nothing.  Stay — have  you 
forgotten  we  were  to  dine  at  the  Grange  to-night  ?" 

The  invitation  had  come  a  w^eek  ago,  and  Adeline  had 
repeated  it  last  evening.     Still  Hannah  hesitated. 

"  Must  we  go  ?    Nay,  ought  we  ?" 

"Why  not?  Because  of— of  what  we  said  last  night? 
That  is  a  stronger  reason  than  ever  why  we  should  go. 
We  should  not  shrink  from  society.  I  am  not  ashamed  of 
myself.     Are  you  ?" 

"No."  She  dropped  her  head, faintly  blushing;  but  when 
she  saw  that  Bernard  held  his  erect  she  took  courage, 

"What  Lady  Rivers  says  does  not  apply  to  Melville 
Grange.  My  sister  is  mistress  in  her  own  house,  and  Mel- 
ville, though  he  is  fond  enough  of  his  sisters-in-law,  is  not 
really  so  likely  to  be  influenced  by  his  mother-in-law  as  by 
his  own  mother.  She  is  a  very  good  and  wise  woman,  Mrs. 
Melville.     I  wanted  to  have  a  little  talk  with  her  to-night." 

Hannah  looked  uneasy.  "  Oh,  be  careful !  I  would 
much  rather  not  a  word  were  said  to  any  one." 

"About  ourselves?  No;  I  have  not  the  slightest  inten- 
tion of  telling  any  body.  It  is  our  own  afiair  entirely  till 
we  see  our  way  clear  to — to  the  rightful  end ;  for,  Han- 


182  HANNAH. 

nah,  I  need  not  say  that  must  come  about,  if  it  be  possi- 
ble.    I  can  not  live  without  you." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  grasping  her  hand.  He  was 
not  nearly  so  calm  as  she ;  yet  even  Hannah  felt  her  heart 
beating,  her  color  coming  and  going.  Is  it  only  for  young 
lovers,  passionate,  selfish,  uncontrolled,  that  society  must 
legislate?  or  criminal  lovers,  who  exact  an  excited  pity, 
and  are  interesting  just  because  they  are  criminal?  Is 
there  no  justice,  no  tenderness,  for  those  who  suffer  and 
are  silent,  doing  no  wrong  ? 

"  We  will  never  do  any  thing  wrong,"  said  he.  "  We 
will  neither  fly  in  the  face  of  the  law,  nor  offend  my  own 
people,  if  possible ;  but  we  will  be  married  if  we  can.  I 
must  take  legal  advice  on  the  subject.  Till  then  let  all 
go  on  as  usual.     Is  it  not  better  so  ?" 

"Yes." 

They  stood  at  the  hall  door,  Rosie  sitting  queen-like  on 
Tannie's  arm,  to  watch  papa  away.  He  kissed  his  little 
girl,  and  then  just  touched  with  his  lips  the  hand  that 
held  her.  No  more.  No  love-embrace,  no  thought  of 
such  a  thing ;  but  there  was  a  gleam  in  his  eyes,  like  the 
January  sun  through  the  winter  trees,  showing  that  sum- 
mer days  might  yet  come. 

It  warmed  Hannah's  heart  with  a  quiet,  serious  joy  as 
she  went  through  her  household  duties,  especially  those 
which  concerned  the  child.  She  had  her  darling  with  her 
almost  all  day,  and  never  had  Rosie's  innocent  companion- 
ship been  so  satisfying  and  so  sweet. 

*'So  for  the  father's  sake  the  child  was  dear, 
And  dearer  was  the  father  for  the  child." 

Among  the  magnificent  literature  in  which  Tannic  and 
Rosie  indulged  happened  to  be  an  illustrated  fairy-tale 
book,  wherein  the  usual  cruel  step-mother  figured  in  great 
force.  And  she  herself  should  be  a  step-mother,  perhaps, 
one  day  !  In  the  glee  of  her  heart  Hannah  laughed — act- 
ually laughed — to  think  how  different  fiction  often  was 
from  reality. 


IIAXNAII.  183 

Bernard  came  home  only  just  in  time  to  dress,  and  they 
did  not  meet  till  he  put  her  into  the  carriage.  Half  their 
drive  passed  almost  in  silence,  but  by-and-by  Bernard 
spoke  in  a  business-like  way,  saying  he  meant  to  go  up  to 
London,  and  take  counsel's  opinion  there.  It  would  not 
do  to  consult  any  one  here.  On  what  subject  he  did  not 
say,  but  it  was  easy  to  guess. 

"Mrs.  Melville  might  give  me  information — only,  of 
course,  I  could  not  ask  her  direct.  I  can  only  find  it  out 
in  a  quiet  way,  as  I  have  already  found  out  a  good  deal. 
It  seems  till  1835  these  marriages  were  legal — at  any  rate 
not  illegal,  unless  an  ecclesiastical  suit  should  find  them 
so,  which  it  never  did.  It  was  in  1835  that  was  passed 
the  ridiculous  bill  confirming  all  marriages  prior  to  31st 
August,  and  making  those  unlawful  which  happened  on  or 
after  the  1st  September." 

"Then  they  are  unlawful  now  ?"  said  Hannah,  feeling  si- 
lence worse  than  speech. 

"IsTobody  seems  quite  to  understand  whether  they  are 
or  not.  On  the  Continent,  nay,  in  every  country  except 
ours,  they  are  certainly  legal.  Our  colonies  have  several 
times  passed  a  bill  legalizing  such  marriages,  and  the  moth- 
er country  has  thrown  it  out.  Many  persons  go  abroad  to 
be  married,  come  back  again,  and  live  unblamed ;  but  they 
risk  a  good  deal,  and  " — he  hesitated — "  it  is  not  for  them- 
selves alone." 

Hannah  drew  back  into  her  dark  corner,  glad  of  the 
darkness.  It  was  a  strange  and  sore  position  for  any  wom- 
an to  be  placed  in.  Betrothed,  yet  having  none  of  the 
honors  and  happinesses  of  an  affianced  bride ;  sitting  be- 
side her  lover,  yet  treated  by  him  in  no  lover-like  fashion, 
and  feeling  nothing  of  the  shy  frankness  which  makes  the 
new  tie  so  sweet;  obliged  to  talk  with  him  about  their 
marriage  and  its  possibilities  with  a  mournful  candor  that 
would  have  been  most  painful  to  bear,  save  for  her  own 
strong,  innocent  heart  and  Bernard's  exceeding  delicacy — 
she  found  her  lot  as  humiliating  as  it  was  hard. 

Yet  she  had  never  loved  him  so  dearly,  never  recognized 


184  HAl^NAH. 

how  well  he  deserved  her  love,  as  when,  after  their  long, 
dark  drive,  he  said,  tenderly,  "  IN'ow,  Hannah,  we  will  for- 
get for  the  time  all  these  bitternesses — except  the  love,  ex- 
cept the  love,"  handed  her  out  into  the  bright  hall  at  the 
Grange,  and  entered  the  drawing-room  with  her  on  his 
arm,  as  at  Easterham  dinner-parties  had  been  their  cus- 
tom always. 

This  was  a  state  dinner.  All  the  Moat  House  people 
were  there,  and  Mr.  Morecamb  too.  Hannah  did  not  know 
whether  it  was  pure  accident  or  refinement  of  ill-nature, 
but  Mr.  Morecamb  was  assigned  to  her  at  dinner,  and  she 
had  no  resource  but  to  obey.  The  poor  man  evidently 
knew  his  fate,  and  was  bearing  it  like  a  man.  It  was  ei- 
ther one  of  the  contre-teynps  in  which  the  unlucky  victims 
can  only  submit  and  make  the  best  of  things,  or  done  on 
purpose ;  but  in  either  case  there  was  no  remedy. 

Bernard  had  been  placed  far  down  the  table ;  but,  wheth- 
er or  not,  Hannah  knew  he  could  be  no  shield  to  her; 
rather  the  contrary.  She  must  keep  up  her  own  dignity 
— trust  for  protection  solely  to  herself.  And  a  nervous 
consciousness  made  her  look  sedulously  away  from  him  all 
dinner-time ;  nay,  as  she  passed  him  in  the  procession  of 
ladies  afterward,  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  so  steadily  on 
the  ground  that  Bertha  asked,  satirically,  "  if  she  and  Ber- 
nard had  been  quarreling  ?" 

During  dinner  she  had  been  comparatively  safe,  even 
with  Mr.  Morecamb  beside  her ;  afterward  there  gathered 
over  her  the  vague  coldness  which  women  always  know 
how  to  show  toward  another  woman  who  is  somehow 
"  under  a  cloud."  The  Rivers  family  indicated  it  most  of 
all.  Scarcely  any  one  of  them  addressed  her  except  Ade- 
line. 

"  Don't  mind  it,"  whispered  the  latter,  following  Han- 
nah into  a  corner.  "  We'll  stand  by  you,  and  people  will 
see  you  here.  Of  course  it  is  awkward,  very  awkward. 
Easterham  is  talking  about  you  so  much,  and  my  family, 
of  all  things,  dislike  being  talked  about.  But  I  have 
thrown  dust  in  every  body's  eyes  by  giving  you  at  dinner 


UANJS^An.  185 

to  Mr.  Morecamb.  Couldn't  you  like  him  ?  Such  a  nice 
old  fellow,  and  so  fond  of  you  ?" 

Hannah  shook  her  head,  smiling  drearily.  It  was  idle  to 
take  offense  at  silly  little  Adeline,  who  never  meant  any 
harm. 

She  sat  down,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  photograph 
book,  and  bade  her  young  hostess  go  back  to  her  other 
guests. 

"  No,  no ;  I  mean  to  stay  with  you.  I  don't  feel  as  my 
family  do.  I  can't  see  Avhy  they  should  make  such  a  fuss 
even  if  Bernard  did  want  to  marry  you.  People  used  to 
do  it — my  respected  mother-in-law,  for  instance.  And  sis- 
ters-in-law are  not  real  sisters ;  never  ought  to  be.  If  the 
law  made  this  quite  clear,  a  man  wouldn't  dare  go  philan- 
dering with  them  in  his  wife's  lifetime.  Now — oh  dear ! — 
it's  so  convenient.  He  can't  marry  them,  so  he  may  flirt 
with  them  as  much  as  ever  he  likes.  It's  all  right,  and  the 
wife  can't  say  a  word.     But  she  may  feel,  for  all  that." 

Adeline  spoke  bitterly ;  having  evidently  quite  slidden 
away  from  the  case  in  point,  not  thinking  of  Hannah  at  all; 
so  there  was  no  need  to  answer  her  except  in  a  general  way. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  it  is  at  times  a  little  vexing.  But  I 
am  afraid  I  do  not  understand  jealousy.  I  can  not  com- 
prehend how,  after  people  are  once  married,  they  feel  the 
smallest  interest  in  any  body  else.  And  the  conjugal  fidel- 
ity which  has  only  the  law  to  secure  it  must  be  a  very 
shallow  thing." 

"  You  ridiculously  simple  woman  !  Well,  perhaps  you 
are  right.  Jealousy  is  silly.  We  can't  stop  every  young 
lady  out  of  our  house  because  our  husband  may  one  day 
have  the  chance  of  marrying  her.  Let  him !  When  we 
are  dead  and  gone  we  shall  not  care.  Only  don't  let  her 
come  and  steal  him  from  us  while  we  are  alive.  It's  all  a 
sham,  this  nonsense  about  sisters,"  added  she,  stamping 
with  her  white  satin  shoes,  and  tearing  to  pieces  her  hot- 
house roses.  "And,  like  you,  I  am  beginning  to  hate  shams. 
Hannah  Thelluson,  let  us  be  friends." 

"  We  always  were  friends,  I  hope,"  said  Hannah,  gently, 


186  HANNAH. 

pitying  tlie  young  wife,  whose  skeleton  in  the  house  had 
been  so  unconsciously  betrayed.  She  was  more  than  sor- 
ry, rather  angry,  when,  as  the  evening  wore  on,  and  the 
gentlemen  came  in,  Herbert  Melville,  scarcely  noticing  his 
sickly,  unlovely  Adeline,  devoted  himself  entirely  to  her 
blooming  sisters,  especially  to  Bertha ;  who,  a  born  co- 
quette, seemed  to  enjoy  the  triumph  amazingly.  The  law 
which  barred  some  people  from  happiness  did  not  seem  to 
furnish  any  security  for  the  happiness  of  others.  Hannah 
almost  forgot  herself  in  her  pity  for  Adeline. 

And  yet  she  could  have  pitied  herself  too — a  little.  It 
was  hard  to  sit  there,  tabooed,  as  it  were,  by  that  silent 
ignoring  which  women  understand  so  well,  and  hear  the 
others  talking  pleasantly  round  her.  No  one  was  actually 
uncivil ;  the  Melvilles  were  almost  obtrusively  kind ;  but 
there  the  coldness  was,  and  Hannah  felt  it.  Such  a  new 
thing,  too ;  for,  in  her  quiet  way,  she  had  been  rather  pop- 
ular than  not  in  society ;  she  had  such  gentle  tact  in  fish- 
ing out  all  the  shy,  or  grim,  or  stupid  people,  and  warm- 
ing them  up  into  cheerfulness.  But  now  even  they  quietly 
slipped  away  and  left  her  alone. 

It  was  a  heavy  night.  She  asked  herself  more  than  once 
how  many  more  of  the  like  she  should  have  to  bear,  and  if 
she  could  bear  them.  Did  Bernard  see  it  or  feel  it  ?  She 
could  not  tell.  He  came  in  late.  She  saw  him  talking  to 
Mrs.  Melville,  and  afterward  to  Lady  Rivers ;  then  trying 
his  utmost  to  be  pleasant  to  every  body.  She  was  so 
proud  always  of  the  sweet  nature  he  had,  and  the  simple 
unconscious  charm  of  his  manner  in  society.  But  in  the 
pauses  of  conversation  he  looked  inexpressibly  sad;  and 
when  they  got  into  the  carriage,  and  were  alone  together, 
she  heard  him  sigh  so  heavily,  that  if  his  people  had  been 
all  night  long  pricking  her  with  pins  and  needles  Hannah 
would  not  have  complained.  The  very  fact  of  complaint 
seemed  a  certain  humiliation. 

They  scarcely  exchanged  a  word  all  the  drive  home; 
but  he  took  and  held  fast  her  hand.  There  was  something 
in  the  warm  clasp  that  comforted  her  for  every  thing. 


HANNAH.  187 

"  Dear,"  he  whispered,  as  he  lit  her  candle  and  bade  her 
good-night,  which  he  did  as  soon  as  possible,  "  it  is  a  hard 
lot  for  both  of  us.     Can  you  bear  it  ?" 

"I  think  I  can." 

And 'so  for  some  days  she  thought  she  could.  She  had 
that  best  balm  for  sorrow — a  busy  life ;  each  hour  was  as 
full  of  work  as  it  would  hold ;  no  time  for  dreaming  or  re- 
grets, scarcely  even  for  love,  except  in  the  form  wherein 
fate  had  brought  love  to  her — calm,  domestic,  habitual — 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  friendship  even  yet.  She 
and  Bernard  did  all  their  customary  business  together 
day  by  day.  They  had  become  so  completely  one  in  their 
work  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  do  otherwise. 
Nor  did  she  wish  it.  She  was  happy  only  to  be  near  him, 
to  help  him,  to  watch  him  fulfilling  all  his  duties,  what- 
ever bitterness  lay  underneath  them.  That  pure  joy  which 
a  woman  feels  in  a  man's  worthiness  of  love,  keener  than 
even  her  sense  of  the  love  he  gives  her,  was  Hannah's  to 
the  core.  And  then  she  had  her  other  permanent  bliss — 
the  child. 

Women — good  women,  too — have  sometimes  married  a 
man  purely  for  the  sake  of  his  children ;  and  Hannah  never 
clasped  Rosie  in  her  arms  without  understanding  some- 
thing of  that  feeling.  Especially  on  the  first  Sunday  after 
the  change  had  come — the  great  change,  of  which  not  an 
atom  showed  in  their  outward  lives,  but  of  which  she  and 
Bernard  were  growing  more  and  more  conscious  every 
day.  This  bright  morning,  when  the  sun  was  shining,  and 
the  crocuses  all  aflame  across  the  garden,  and  a  breath  of 
spring  stirring  through  the  half-budded  lilac-tree,  it  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  hard  for  them  to  keep  up  that  gentle 
reticence  of  manner  to  one  another,  except  for  the  child. 

Rosie  was  a  darling  child.  Even  strangers  said  so. 
The  trouble  she  gave  was  infinitesimal,  the  joy  unlimited. 
Father  and  aunt  were  accustomed  to  delight  together 
over  the  little  opening  soul,  especially  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing. They  did  so  still.  They  talked  scarcely  at  all,  nei- 
ther of  the  future  nor  the  past ;  but  simply  accepted  the 


188  HANNAH. 

present,  as  eliildhood  accepts  it,  never  looking  beyond. 
Until,  in  the  midst  of  their  frolic — while  papa  was  carry- 
ing his  little  girl  on  his  back  round  and  round  the  table, 
and  Tannic  was  jumping  out  after  them  at  intervals  in  the 
character  of  an  imaginary  wolf,  Rosie  screaming  with  ec- 
stasy, and  the  elders  laughing  almost  as  heartily  as  the 
child — there  came  a  note  from  the  Moat  House. 

Mr.  Rivers  read  it,  crushed  it  furiously  in  his  hand,  and 
threw  it  on  the  back  of  the  fire.  Then,  before  it  burned, 
he  snatched  it  out  again. 

"  My  poor  Hannah !  But  you  ought  to  read  it.  It  will 
hurt  you — still  you  ought  to  read  it.  There  must  never 
be  any  concealments  between  us  two." 

"No." 

Hannah  took  the  letter,  but  did  not  grow  furious — rather 
calmer  than  before.  She  knew  it  was  only  the  beginning 
of  the  end. 

"  My  dear  Bernard, — Your  father  wishes  particularly 
to  talk  with  you  to-day,  as  poor  Austin,  we  hear,  is  rather 
w^orse  than  usual.  You  will,  of  course,  come  in  to  lunch, 
and  remain  to  dinner. 

"  I  perceive  that,  in  spite  of  my  earnest  advice.  Miss 
Thelluson  is  still  an  inmate  of  your  household.  Will  you 
suggest  to  her  that  I  am  sorry  our  pew  will  be  full,  and 
our  dinner-table  also,  to-day  ? 

"  I  wish  you  were  more  amenable  to  the  reasonings  of 
your  family,  but  remain,  nevertheless,  your  afiiectionate 
mother,  A.  Rivers." 

"  Well  ?"  Bernard  said,  watching  her. 

Hannah  drooped  her  head  over  Rosie's  hair ;  the  child 
had  crept  to  her  knees,  and  was  looking  with  wide  blue 
eyes  up  at  Tannic. 

"  It  is  but  what  I  expected — what  she  before  declared 
her  intention  of  doing." 

"  But  do  you  recognize  all  it  implies — all  it  will  result  in  ?" 

"  Whatever  it  be,  I  am  prepared." 


HANNAH.  189 

"  You  do  not  know  the  worst,"  Bernard  said,  after  a 
pause.  "I  found  it  out  yesterday  by  getting  counsel's 
opinion  on  the  strict  law  of  the  case ;  but  I  had  not  cour- 
age to  tell  you." 

"  Why  not  ?    I  thought  we  were  to  have  no  secrets." 

"  Oh,  we  men  are  such  cowards ;  I  am,  anyhow.  But 
will  you  hear  it  now  ?  It  will  be  such  a  relief  to  talk  to 
you." 

"  Talk,  then,"  said  Hannah,  with  a  pale  smile.  "  Stop ; 
shall  we  have  time  ?  It  will  be  twenty  minutes  yet  before 
the  church-bells  begin  ringing." 

For  she  knew  that  the  wheels  of  life  must  go  on,  though 
both  their  hearts  were  crushed  on  the  way. 

"  Five  minutes  will  be  enough  for  all  I  have  to  tell  you. 
Only — take  the  child  away." 

Hannah  carried  away  little  Rosie,  who  clung  frantically 
to  her  fond  paradise  in  Tannie's  arms,  and  was  heard  wail- 
ing dolorously  overhead  for  a  good  while. 

"  See !  even  that  baby  can  not  bear  to  part  with  you. 
How,  then,  shall  I?"  cried  Bernard,  passionately;  and 
then,  bidding  her  sit  down,  began  giving  her  in  words  ex- 
act and  brief  the  result  of  his  inquiries. 

These  confirmed  all  he  had  said  himself  once  before  in 
the  case  of  Grace  and  James  Dixon.  Of  the  law,  as  it 
now  stood,  there  could  be  no  possible  doubt.  No  mar- 
riage with  a  deceased  wife's  sister,  whether  celebrated  here 
or  abroad,  would  be  held  valid  in  England.  No  woman  so 
married  had  any  legal  rights,  no  children  could  inherit. 
Thus,  even  in  cases  where  the  marriage  was  known  to  have 
existed,  and  the  wife  had  borne  the  husband's  name  for 
years,  whole  estates  have  been  known  to  lapse  to  the 
Crown ;  but  then  the  Crown,  with  a  curious  recognition 
of  the  difference  between  law  and  equity,  had  been  usually 
advised  to  return  them  piecemeal,  under  the  guise  of  a 
free  gift,  to  the  children,  who  otherwise  would  have  been 
the  undisputed  heirs. 

"Heirship — money!  it  seems  all  to  hinge  upon  that," 
said  Hannah,  a  little  bitterly. 


190  HANNAH. 

"  Yes ;  because  property  is  the  test  upon  which  the 
whole  legal  question  turns.  If  I  had  been  without  ties — 
say  a  poor  clerk  upon  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  (I  wish 
I  had) — we  might  have  set  sail  by  the  next  steamer  to 
America,  and  lived  there  happy  to  the  end  of  our  days ; 
for  England  is  the  only  country  which  does  not  recognize 
such  marriages  as  ours.  Some  countries — France  and  Ger- 
many, for  instance — require  a  special  permission  to  marry ; 
but  this  gained,  society  accepts  the  union  at  once.  Now 
with  us — oh,  Hannah,  how  am  I  to  put  it  to  you? — this 
would  do  no  good.  As  I  said  before,  the  misery  would 
not  end  with  ourselves." 

"  Would  it  affect  Rosie  ?" 

"  Your  heart  is  full  of  Rosie.  No ;  but  she  is  only  a 
girl,  and  the  Moat  House  is  entailed  in  the  male  line. 
Austin  is  slowly  dying.  I  am  the  last  of  my  race.  Do 
you  understand  ?" 

She  did  at  last.  Her  face  and  neck  turned  scarlet,  but 
she  did  not  shrink.  It  was  one  of  the  terrible  necessities 
of  her  position  that  she  must  not  shrink  from  any  thing. 
She  saw  clearly,  that  never,  according  to  the  law  of  En- 
gland, could  she  be  Bernard's  wife.  And  if  not,  what 
would  she  be  ?  If  she  had  children,  what  would  they  be  ? 
And  his  estates  lay  in  England,  and  he  was  the  last  of  his 
line. 

"  I  perceive,"  she  faltered.  "  No  need  to  explain  further. 
You  must  not  think  of  mo  any  more.  To  marry  me  would 
ruin  you." 

Wild  and  miserable  as  his  eyes  were — fierce  with  misery 
— ^the  tears  rushed  into  them. 

"  My  poor  Hannah,  my  own  unselfish  Hannah,  you  nev- 
er think  for  a  moment  that  it  would  also  ruin  you." 

It  was  true,  she  had  not  thought  of  herself;  only  of 
him.  A  clergyman,  prepared  to  break  the  canon  law ;  a 
man  of  family  and  position,  running  counter  to  all  social 
prejudices;  a  son,  dutiful  and  fondly  attached,  opposing 
his  father's  dearest  wishes !  The  mental  struggle  that  he 
must  have  gone  through  before  there  ever  dawned  upon 


HANNAH.  191 

him  the  possibility  of  marrying  her  struck  Hannah  with  a 
conviction  of  the  depth  of  his  love,  the  strength  of  his  en- 
durance, such  as  she  had  never  believed  in  before. 

"  Oh,  Bernard !"  she  cried,  calling  him  by  his  name  for 
the  first  time,  and  feeling — was  it  also  for  the  first  time  ? — 
how  entirely  she  loved  him — "  Bernard,  you  must  never 
think  of  marrying  me :  we  must  part." 

"Part!"  and  he  made  as  if  he  would  have  embraced 
her,  but  restrained  himself.  "  We  will  discuss  that  ques- 
tion by-and-by.  At  present,  hear  the  rest  which  I  have 
to  tell." 

He  then  explained,  with  a  calmness  which  in  so  impul- 
sive a  man  showed  how  strong  was  the  self-control  he  was 
learning  to  exercise,  that  since  1835  many  dissentients 
from  the  law  then  passed  had  tried  to  set  it  aside;  that 
almost  every  session  a  bill  to  this  efiect  was  brought  into 
the  House  of  Commons,  fiercely  discussed  there,  passed  by 
large  majorities,  and  then  carried  to  the  Upper  House, 
Avhere  the  Peers  invariably  threw  it  out.  Still  in  the  mi- 
nority were  a  few  very  earnest  in  the  cause. 

"  I  know ;  Lord  Dunsmore  is  one  of  them." 

"  Yes ;  I  had  forgotten ;  I  seem  to  be  forgetting  every 
thing!"  and  Bernard  put  his  hand  wearily  to  his  head. 
"  I  met  Lady  Dunsmore  in  London,  and  she  asked  me  no 
end  of  questions  about  you.  She  is  very  fond  of  you,  I 
think." 

"Is  she?" 

"She  wanted  to  know  if  you  would  come  and  stay  with 
her,  and  bring  Rosie ;  but  I  said  I  could  not  spare  either 
of  you.  And  then  she  looked  at  me  inquisitively.  She  is 
a  very  shrewd,  clever,  good  woman,  and  a  strong  ally  on 
our  side.  For  it  must  be  our  side,  Hannah,  whatever  my 
people  say,  whatever  I  might  have  said  myself  once.  Any 
law  that  creates  a  crime  is  mischievous  and  cruel.  There 
ought  to  be,  as  I  once  overheard  Lord  Dunsmore  say,  no 
bar  whatsoever  to  marriage  except  consanguinity.  Even 
if  I  had  no  personal  concern  in  the  matter,  it  is  a  wrong, 
and  I  would  fioht  asfainst  it  as  such." 


192  HANNAH. 

"  The  Riverses  were  ever  fighters,  you  know,"  said  Han- 
nah, watching  him  with  a  sad,  tender  smile,  and  more  than 
ever  there  darkened  down  upon  her  all  that  he  was  giving 
up  for  her  sake. 

"But  to  come  to  the  point,  Hannah.  1  have  told  you 
all  the  ill ;  now  hear  the  good.  Every  year  public  feeling 
is  advancing ;  this  year  the  bill  is  to  be  brought  in  again. 
Its  adherents  are  ready  for  a  good  hard  fight,  as  usual ; 
but  this  time  they  hope  to  win.  And  if  they  win — then — 
then—" 

He  seized  her  hands,  and  clasped  them  passionately.  It 
was  not  the  dreamy  love-making  of  a  boy  in  his  teens — of 
her  lost  Arthur,  for  instance,  over  whose  utmost  happiness 
hung  the  shadow  of  early  death ;  it  was  the  strong  pas- 
sion of  a  man  in  the  midst  of  life,  with  all  his  future  before 
him — a  future  that  needed  a  wife's  help  to  make  it  com- 
plete ;  and  Hannah  knew  it.  For  a  moment,  sad,  pale, 
white-lily-like  as  she  was,  there  came  a  flush  rose-red  into 
her  cheeks,  and  to  her  heart  an  eager  response  to  the  new 
duties,  the  new  joys;  then  she  shrank  back  within  herself. 
It  all  seemed  so  hopeless,  or  with  such  a  slender  thread  of 
hope  to  cling  to :  yet  he  clung  to  it. 

"  I  will  never  give  in,"  he  said,  "  if  I  have  to  wait  for 
years.  I  will  marry  you  if  I  possibly  can.  I  will  never 
marry  any  other  woman.  You  shall  not  be  troubled  or 
harmed — not  more  than  I  must  necessarily  harm  you,  my 
poor  love,  simply  because  you  are  my  love.  But  mine  you 
must  and  shall  be.     You  hear  me,  Hannah  ?" 

For  she  stood  passive  and  bewildered.  Any  one  might 
have  thought  she  did  not  care  until  she  lifted  up  her  eyes 
to  him.     Then  he  had  no  doubt  at  all. 

"  Oh,  give  me  one  kiss,  Hannah,  to  last  me  all  these 
months  and  years.     It  will  not  hurt  you — it  is  not  wrong." 

"No;"  and  she  gave  it*  Then  with  a  great  sigh  they 
both  sat  down. 

The  church-bells  began  to  ring.  "  I  must  go,"  Bernard 
said.  "  But  first,  what  are  we  to  do  ?  Will  you  go  to 
church  to-day  ?" 


HANNAH.  193 

"I  must.  If  I  sit  in  the  free  seats  or  in  the  aisle,  I  must 
go  to  church.  It  is  God's  house ;  He  will  not  drive  me 
from  it;  He  knows  I  have  done  nothing  wrong."  And 
she  wept  a  little,  but  not  much. 

"You  are  right;  we  have  not  done  any  thing  wrong, 
and  we  ought  not  to  act  as  if  we  had.  Then — will  you 
come  with  me  ?" 

"  No ;  I  had  rather  go  alone,"  said  Hannah,  gently.  "  I 
will  bear  every  thing  alone,  so  far  as  I  can." 

"What  do  you  mean?    What  do  you  wish?" 

"That  you  should  in  all  things  do  your  duty  without 
considering  me.  Go  to  the  Moat  House,  as  they  desire. 
If  they  do  not  mention  me,  do  not  you.  What  does  it 
matter  ?  they  can  not  harm  me — not  much.  And  to  break 
with  them  would  be  terrible  for  you.  Keep  friends  with 
your  own  people  to  the  last." 

"  You  truly  wish  that  ?" 

"  I  do.  Now  go.  Good-by,  and  God  bless  you,  Ber- 
nard." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  Hannah  !" 

And  with  that  mutual  blessing  they  parted. 


CHAPTER  XL 


The  climaxes  of  life  come  only  occasionally.  When 
borne  upon  the  height  of  them  we  think  we  can  endure 
any  thing ;  all  beside  them  seem  so  small.  But  when  they 
are  over,  and  we  have  sunk  back  in  the  level  of  every-day 
life,  it  is  different.  The  sword-stroke  we  hardly  felt ;  the 
daily  pin-pricks  drive  us  wild.  It  is  sure  to  be  so ;  we  can 
not  help  it. 

At  first  Hannah  thought  she  could.  After  that  Sunday 
morning  she  and  Bernard  talked  no  more  together — why 
should  they  ?  Their  minds  were  quite  made  up  that  both 
love  and  marriage  were  lawful  to  them — if  attainable. 
But  seeing  that  an  immediate  union  was  impossible,  and  a 

I 


194  HANNAH. 

separation  almost  equally  so,  they  spoke  of  neither  again, 
but  tacitly  determined  to  go  on  living  together  as  before 
— in  no  way  like  lovers,  but  as  like  brother  and  sister  as 
was  practicable — both  for  their  own  sakes,  and  for  the  sake 
of  outward  eyes. 

This  decided,  Hannah  thought  her  way  would  be  clear. 
It  was  only  a  question  of  time  and  patient  waiting.  Any 
year  the  Bill  might  be  passed,  and  their  marriage  made 
possible.  In  the  mean  time  it  was  no  Tvorse  than  a  long 
engagement;  better,  perhaps,  since  they  had  the  daily 
comfort  of  one  another's  society.  At  least  Hannah  felt  it 
so,  and  was  cheerful  and  content.  What  Bernard  felt  he 
did  not  say;  but  he  was  not  always  content;  often  very 
dull,  irritable,  and  desponding.  At  such  times  Hannah  had 
great  patience  with  him — the  patience  which  had  now  the 
additional  strength  of  knowing  that  it  w^as  to  be  exercised 
for  life. 

It  was  most  needed,  she  found,  after  he  had  been  to  the 
Moat  House,  whither,  according  to  her  wish,  he  steadily 
went,  and  went  alone.  Had  she  been  his  wife,  or  even 
openly  his  betrothed,  she  might,  spite  of  all  she  had  said, 
have  resented  this,  but  now  what  could  she  resent  ?  She 
had  no  rights  to  urge.  So  she  submitted.  As  to  what 
passed  on  these  visits  she  asked  no  questions,  and  he  gave 
no  information.  She  never  saw  Bernard's  people  now,  ex- 
cept on  Sundays,  with  the  distance  of  a  dozen  pews  be- 
tween them.  Young  Mrs.  Melville  still  called,  punctilious- 
ly and  pointedly,  leaving  her  pair  of  grays  standing  out- 
side the  gate ;  but  she  excused  herself  from  asking  Han- 
nah to  the  Grange,  because  if  the  girls  were  there  it  would 
be  so  very  awkward. 

"  And  the  girls  are  always  there,"  added  she,  querulous- 
ly. "I  can't  call  my  house  my  own — or  my  husband's 
either.  Hannah,  when  you  marry  you'll  be  thankful  that 
you've  got  no  sisters." 

Hannah  smiled.  She  saw  that  of  the  real  truth  of  her 
position  with  regard  to  Mr,  Rivers  Adeline  guessed  noth- 
ing.    It  was  best  so. 


HANNAH.  195 

As  Aveeks  passed  another  chaoge  gradually  came.  Invi- 
tations— the  fear  of  which  had  sometimes  perplexed  her, 
for  how  should  she  meet  the  Moat  House  family  even 
upon  neutral  ground? — almost  totally  ceased.  Her  neigh- 
bors left  off  calling — that  is,  her  grand  neighbors;  the 
humbler  ones  still  sought  her ;  but  she  fancied  she  read  in 
their  eyes  a  painful  curiosity,  a  still  more  painful  compas- 
sion, especially  when  they  met  her  and  Bernard  together 
— a  chance  which  occurred  but  seldom  now.  For  he,  too, 
seemed  to  have  a  nervous  dread  of  being  seen  with  her, 
and  avoided  her  so  much  that  she  would  often  have 
thought  he  had  forgotten  every  word  that  had  passed  be- 
tween them,  save  for  the  constant  mindfulness,  the  contin- 
ual watchful  care  which  a  man  never  shows  except  to  the 
one  woman  he  loves  best  in  the  world. 

Yet  sometimes  even  having  so  much  made  the  weak 
heart  crave  for  a  little,  a  very  little,  more ;  just  a  word  or 
two  of  love ;  an  evening  now  and  then  of  their  old  frank 
intercourse,  so  safe  and  free.  But  neither  ever  came. 
Bernard  seemed  to  make  it  a  point  of  honor  that  what- 
ever people  chose  to  say,  they  should  be  given  no  data 
upon  which  to  come  to  the  smallest  conclusion.  Within, 
as  without  the  house,  all  the  world  might  have  heard 
every  word  he  said  to  Miss  Thelluson. 

Whatever  suspicion  was  whispered  about  the  village,  it 
rose  to  no  open  scandal.  Every  body  came  to  church  as 
usual,  and  no  one  applied  to  Mr.  Rivers's  bishop  to  restrain 
him  from  preaching  because  he  retained  as  his  housekeeper 
a  lady  whom  the  law  persisted  in  regarding  as  his  sister. 
But  the  contradiction  was  that  in  spite  of  her  being  count- 
ed his  "  sister,"  people  did  talk,  and  would  talk ;  and,  of 
course,  the  sharpest  lash  of  their  tongues  fell,  not  upon 
the  man,  but  upon  the  woman. 

Slowly,  slowly  Hannah  became  aware  that  every  serv- 
ant in  the  house,  every  family  in  the  parish,  kept  an  eye 
upon  her,  observing,  condemning,  sympathizing,  defending 
— all  by  turns — but  never  leaving  her  alone,  till  she  felt 
like  the  poor  camel  in  the  desert,  whose  dying  gaze  sees  in 


196  HANNAH. 

the  horizon  that  faint  black  line  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
— the  vultures  which  are  to  pick  her  bones.  She  would 
have  gone  frantic  sometimes,  brave  woman  as  she  was,  in 
the  utter  impossibility  of  fighting  against  the  intangible 
wrong,  had  it  not  been  for  the  child. 

Bosie  became  not  only  her  darling  but  her  friend.  She 
had  now  almost  no  other  companion,  and  wanted  none. 
All  grown-up  people  seemed  worldly  and  shallow,  dull 
and  cold,  compared  to  the  pure  little  soul,  fresh  out  of 
heaven,  which  heaven  itself  had  sent  to  comfort  her.  As 
Rosie's  English  increased  they  two  held  long  conversa- 
tions together,  very  monosyllabic,  certainly,  and  upon  the 
simplest  of  topics — "bow-wows,"  "gee-gees,"  and  so  on — 
yet  quite  comprehensible  and  equally  interesting  to  both. 
For  is  not  a  growing  soul  the  most  interesting  and  lovely, 
as  well  as  most  solemn  sight,  in  all  this  world  ?  Hannah 
sometimes  stood  in  awe  and  wonder  at  the  intelligence  of 
the  little  woman  not  yet  three  years  old. 

They  two  understood  one  another  perfectly,  and  loved 
one  another  as  even  real  mother  and  child  do  not  always 
love.  For  never  in  all  her  little  life  had  Rosie  heard  a 
harsher  word  than,  "  Oh,  Rosie,  Tannic  so  sorry !"  which 
sufficed  to  melt  her  at  once  into  the  most  contrite  tears. 
Pure  contrition,  with  no  fear  of  punishment— for  she  had 
never  been  punished.  To  her  innocent,  happy  heart  no 
harmless  joy  had  ever  been  denied,  no  promise  ever 
broken.  She  knew  that,  and  rested  in  her  little  ark  of 
love  as  content  and  safe  as  a  nautilus  in  its  shell,  swim- 
ming over  the  troubled  waters  of  poor  Tannie's  lot  like  a 
visible  angel  of  consolation. 

Day  by  day  that  lot  was  growing  more  hard  to  bear, 
until  at  last  chance  brought  it  to  a  climax. 

One  forenoon,  just  before  Mr.  Rivers  was  going  out, 
there  drove  up  to  the  House  on  the  Hill  a  pretty  pony 
carriage  and  pair  of  grays,  and  out  of  it  stepped  a  little, 
bright,  active,  pretty  woman — the  Countess  of  Dunsmore. 

"  I  knew  I  should  surprise  you,"  cried  she,  kissing  Han- 
nah on  both  cheeks,  and  telling  her  how  well  she  was 


HANNAH.  197 

looking;  which  she  was,  in  the  sudden  pleasure  of  the 
meeting.  "  But  I  wanted  to  surprise  you.  We  are  visit- 
ing at  Highwood  Park,  Mr.  Rivers,  and  I  met  your  sisters 
there  at  dinner,  you  know,  and  promised  to  come  and  see 
them ;  but  of  course  I  came  to  see  Miss  Thelluson  first. 
Well,  my  dear,  and  how  are  you  ?  And  how  is  your  pet 
Rosie?" 

The  little  Rosie  answered  for  herself,  being  so  greatly 
attracted  by  Lady  Dunsmore's  ermine  tails,  and,  perhaps, 
by  her  sweet  motherly  face,  that  she  made  friends  with 
her  immediately.  But  Hannah  was  nervous — agitated. 
She  knew  exactly  the  expression  of  that  quick  dark  eye, 
which  saw  every  thing  and  saw  through  every  thing, 
whether  or  not  the  lady  mentioned  the  result  of  that  ob- 
servation. 

Bernard,  too,  was  a  little  constrained.  He  knew  Lady 
Dunsmore  slightly,  and  evidently  was  not  aware  that 
Hannah  knew  her  so  well;  for  Hannah  was  not  apt  to 
boast  of  her  friends,  especially  when  they  happened  to 
have  titles.  Yet  the  sight  of  her  warmed  her  heart,  and 
she  had  hundreds  of  questions  to  ask  about  her  old  pupils, 
and  endless  reminiscences  of  her  old  life  with  them — so 
peaceful  and  contented.  Yet  would  she  have  had  it  back 
rather  than  the  life  now  ?    No  ! — unhesitatingly  no ! 

She  felt  this  when,  having  put  the  blithe  little  countess 
in  her  carriage,  Bernard  returned.  He  walked  heavily 
down  the  garden  in  deep  thought. 

"A  charming  person,  Lady  Dunsmore,  and  a  warm, 
steady  friend  of  yours,  Hannah." 

"Yes,  she  w^as  always  kind  to  me." 

"  Kinder  than  others  have  been  since,"  said  Mr.  Rivers, 
sighing.  "Would  you  like  to  go  and  pay  her  the  long 
visit  she  asks  for  ?" 

"No." 

"And  what  shall  you  do  about  that  invitation  she  brought 
you,  to  go  with  my  sisters  to  dine  at  Highwood  Park?" 

"  What  can  I  do  except  not  go  ?  To  explain  is  impos- 
sible." 


198  HANNAH. 

"Yes."  After  a  moment's  thought  Mr.  Rivers  went  on : 
"  Hannah,  may  I  say  a  word  ?  Evidently  my  people  have 
been  quite  silent  to  Lady  Dunsmore  about  you ;  she  ex- 
pected to  meet  you  at  the  Moat  House.  They  perhaps 
are  sorry,  and  would  be  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  atone. 
May  I  speak  to  them  ?" 

"Stop  a  minute.  What  shall  you  say?  For  I  will  have 
nothing  said  that  would  humiliate  me." 

Bernard  looked  tenderly  at  the  flushed  face.  "  My  love, 
any  man  humiliates  himself  who  for  a  moment  allows  the 
woman  he  has  chosen  to  be  lightly  esteemed.  Be  satis- 
fied ;  I  shall  keep  up  your  dignity  as  if  it  were  my  own ; 
for  it  is  my  own." 

"Thank  you."  But  there  was  only  pride,  no  sweetness, 
in  the  words.     They  made  him  turn  back  at  once. 

"Oh,  Hannah,  how  long  is  this  state  of  things  to  last? 
How  can  we  bear  it  if  it  lasts  very  long  ?" 

She  replied  nothing. 

"  Sometimes  I  ask  myself,  why  should  we  bear  it,  when 
our  consciences  are  satisfied,  when  the  merest  legal  form 
stands  between  us  and  our  happiness?  You  do  not  feel 
the  suspense  as  I  do  ?  I  see  that ;  but  do  you  know  it 
sometimes  almost  drives  me  mad  that  I  can  not  marry 
you?" 

His  agitation  was  so  extreme  that  Hannah  was  fright- 
ened, both  for  his  sake  and  lest  any  servant  should  come 
in  and  find  them  thus.  Oh,  the  misery  of  that  false  life 
tliey  led !  oh,  the  humiliation  of  concealment ! 

"Why  should  all  the  world  be  happy  but  me?  Why 
should  that  foolish  old  Morecamb —  But  I  forget ;  I  never 
told  you  he  was  going  to  be  married.  I  tell  you  nothing ; 
I  never  have  a  chance  of  an  hour's  quiet  talk  with  you." 

"  Why  not?    It  would  ma^e  me  much  happier." 

Those  pure,  sad,  beseeching  eyes — he  turned  away  from 
them ;  he  could  not  bear  them. 

"Don't  ask  me.  I  dare  not.  If  I  saw  much  of  you  I 
would  not  answer  for  myself.  I  might " — he  laughed — 
"  I  might  even  horrify  you  by  asking  you  to  go  abroad 


HANNAH,  199 

and  get  married,  as  old  Mr.  Melville  did.  But  I  will  not ; 
no,  I  will  not.     And  if  I  would,  you  would  not  consent  ?" 

"No." 

"  I  was  sure  of  it.  One  might  as  well  attempt  to  move 
the  monument  as  Hannah  Thelluson  after  she  had  once 
said  no." 

His  manner  was  so  rough,  so  reckless,  that  it  pained  her 
almost  more  than  any  thing  she  had  yet  experienced.  Was 
their  forced  unnatural  kind  of  life  injuring  him?  And  if 
so,  ought  it  to  continue  ?  And  if  it  must  be  ended,  was 
not  she  the- one  to  do  it? 

"  Bernard,"  she  said, "  will  you  come  home  to-night  ?" — 
for  it  was  now  not  the  rule,  but  the  rare  exception,  his 
staying  with  her  of  evenings — "  then  we  will  have  one  of 
our  old  talks  together,  and  perhaps  we  may  settle  some- 
thing ;  or  feel,  when  we  look  them  calmly  in  the  face,  that 
things  are  not  so  dreadful  as  they  seem.  Now  go.  Hark ! 
there  is  Rosie  calling  over  the  staircase  for  papa." 

He  had  a  real  fatherly  heart  now — this  young  man,  from 
whom,  in  his  full  flush  of  youth,  life's  best  blessing,  a  wife's 
love,  was  first  taken,  and  then  tantalizingly  denied.  He 
snatched  at  the  joys  still  left  to  him,  and  clasping  his  little 
girl  in  his  arms,  pressed  his  hot  forehead  upon  Rosie's  breast. 

But  all  that  day  his  words  and  tones  rang  warningly 
through  Hannah's  heart.  This  could  not  last  —  it  was 
against  human  nature.  So  much,  yet  so  little  as  they 
were  to  one  another.  They  ynust  be  more — or  less.  Should 
she  leave  him ;  for  a  time,  perhaps  ?  or  should  she  go  quite 
away  ?  She  knew  not  what  to  do ;  nor  what  to  say  when 
he  should  come  home  to  her  to-night,  and  appeal  to  her, 
with  the  innocent,  half-childlike  expression  his  face  some- 
times wore,  for  comfort,  counsel.  How  could  she  give  ei- 
ther ?     She  needed  both  herself. 

And  when  their  formal  dinner  was  over,  and  they  sat 
together  in  their  pleasant  drawing-room,  with  the  yellow 
twilight  glimmering  outside — for  summer  was  coming  back 
again,  the  third  summer  since  Rosie  died — life  seemed  to 
Hannah  so  hard,  so  hard ! 


200  HANNAH. 

She  gave  him  his  tea  almost  in  silence,  and  then  he  pro- 
posed a  stroll  in  the  garden,  up  and  down  the  front  walk, 
which  was  in  full  view  of  the  house.  Into  the  sheltered 
green  alley — the  "lovers'  walk" — these  two  poor  lovers 
never  went ;  never  dared  to  go. 

But  such  happiness  as  they  could  get  they  took,  and 
Hannah  had  risen  to  fetch  her  shawl,  when  they  saw  en- 
tering the  gate  the  last  apparition  they  expected  to  see — 
Lady  Rivers.  For  months  she  had  not  crossed  their  thresh- 
old. But  then — Hannah  would  have  been  more  than  mor- 
tal not  to  have  remembered  this — it  had  been  crossed  that 
morning  by  the  Countess  of  Dunsmore. 

Lady  Rivers  was  by  no  means  a  stupid  woman.  Her 
faculty  for  discovering  which  way  the  wind  blew,  and 
trimming  her  sails  accordingly,  amoimted  to  absolute 
genius.  Not  being  thin-skinned  herself,  she  never  looked 
for  that  weakness  in  others;  so  had  under  all  circum- 
stances the  most  enviable  coolness  and  self-possession. 
The  graceful  air  with  which  she  entered  by  the  French 
window,  kissed  Bernard  in  motherly  greeting,  and  shook 
hands  with  Miss  Thelluson  as  if  she  had  seen  her  only  the 
day  before,  was  most  inimitable. 

"  How  comfortable  you  look  here  !  it  is  quite  a  pleasure 
to  see  you.  May  I  ask  for  a  cup  of  tea?  your  tea  used  al- 
ways to  be  so  good,  Miss  Thelluson.  And  you  had  a  visit 
from  Lady  Dunsmore?  So  had  we  afterward.  What  a 
charming  person  she  is ;  and  a  great  friend  of  yours,  I  un- 
derstand." 

Hannah  assented. 

"  I  must  congratulate  you ;  for  a  lady,  especially  a  sin- 
gle lady,  is  always  judged  by  her  choice  of  friends." 

"  I  did  not  choose  Lady  Dunsmore  for  my  friend ;  I  was 
her  governess." 

"  Indeed !  Anyhow,  she  has  evidently  a  great  regard 
for  you.  By-the-bye,  does  she  know  any  thing  of  the — 
the  little  uncomfortableness  between  us  lately,  which,  as 
I  came  to  say  to-night,  is,  I  trust,  entirely  a  thing  of  the 
past.     Don't  speak,  Bernard.     In  fact,  this  visit  is  not 


HANNAH.  201 

meant  for  you.  I  came  over  to  tell  Miss  Thelluson  of 
something  which — as  Mr.  Morecamb  was  the  cause  of  dif- 
ference between  her  and  me"  (Hannah  opened  her  eyes) — 
"  will,  I  trust,  heal  it.  He  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  my 
eldest  daughter." 

Hannah  offered  the  customary  good  wishes. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  most  suitable  marriage,  and  we  are  quite 
pleased  at  it.  So  now,  my  dear,  let  by-gones  be  by-gones. 
Will  you  come  with  Bernard  to  meet  Lady  Dunsmore  at 
dinner  on  Friday  ?" 

Never  was  there  a  more  composed  putting  of  the  saddle 
upon  the  wrong  horse,  ignoring  every  thing  that  it  was 
advisable  to  ignore,  for  the  sake  of  convenience.  And 
many  a  woman,  prudent  and  worldly  wise,  would  have  ac- 
cepted it  as  such.  But,  unfortunately,  Hannah  was  not  a 
prudent  woman.  Against  certain  meannesses  her  spirit  re- 
volted with  a  fierceness  that  slipped  all  self-control. 

She  glanced  toward  Bernard,  but  his  eyes  were  turned 
away ;  he  had  the  moody,  uncomfortable  look  of  a  man 
dragged  unwillingly  into  women's  wars.  Thrown  back 
upon  herself,  alone,  quite  alone,  pride  whispered  that  she 
must  act  as  if  she  w^ere  alone — as  if  his  love  were  all  a 
dream,  and  she  once  more  the  solitary,  independent  Han- 
nah Thelluson,  who,  forlorn  as  she  was,  had  always  been 
able  till  now  to  hold  her  own — had  never  yet  experienced 
an  insult  or  submitted  tamely  to  an  injury.  She  would 
not  now. 

"  I  thank  you.  Lady  Rivers,  for  the  trouble  you  have 
taken,  but  it  will  be  quite  impossible  for  me  to  accept  your 
invitation." 

Lady  Rivers  looked  amazed.  That  any  concession  she 
made  should  not  be  joyfully  received — that  any  invitation 
to  the  Moat  House  should  not  be  accepted  with  avidity : 
the  thing  was  ridiculous.  She  paused  a  moment,  as  if 
doubting  she  had  heard  aright,  and  then  appealed  to  Ber- 
nard. 

"  Pray  assure  Miss  Thelluson  that  she  need  not  hesitate. 
I  have  watched  her  narrowly  of  late,  and  have  quite  got 

12 


202  HANNAH. 

over  any  little  prejudices  I  might  have  had.  I  and  the 
girls  will  be  delighted  to  see  her.  Do  persuade  her  to 
come  with  you." 

"Excuse  me,  but  I  always  leave  Miss  Thelluson  to  de- 
cide for  herself." 

The  cold  voice,  the  indifferent  manner,  though  she  knew 
both  were  advisable  and  inevitable,  smote  Hannah  to  the 
core.  That  bitter  position  of  love  and  no  love,  ties  and  no 
ties,  seemed  to  degrade  her  almost  as  if  she  had  been  real- 
ly the  vile  thing  that  some  people  thought  her. 

"  Mr.  Rivers  is  right,"  she  said ;  "  I  must  decide  for  my- 
self. You  wished  my  visits  to  you  to  cease ;  I  acquiesced. 
It  will  be  not  quite  so  easy  to  resume  them.  As  Mr.  Riv- 
er's sister-in-law  and  housekeeper  I  shall  always  be  happy 
to  see  you  in  his  house ;  but  I  fear  you  must  excuse  my 
coming  to  yours.  Let  us  dismiss  the  subject.  Shall  I 
offer  you  a  cup  of  tea  ?" 

Her  manner,  gentle  as  it  was,  implied  a  resolution  strong 
enough  to  surprise  even  Bernard.  For  Lady  Rivers,  she 
colored,  even  beneath  her  delicate  rouge;  but  she  was  too 
prudent  to  take  offense. 

"  Thank  you.  Your  tea,  as  I  said,  is  always  excellent ; 
and  perhaps  when  we  have  more  attractions  to  offer  you 
we  may  yet  see  you  at  the  Moat  House.  In  the  mean 
time  I  hope,  Bernard,  that  Miss  Thelluson's  absence  will 
not  necessitate  yours  ?" 

And  she  looked  hard  at  him,  determined  to  find  out  how 
he  felt  in  the  matter,  and  to  penetrate,  if  possible,  the  exact 
relations  between  the  two. 

It  was  a  critical  moment.  Most  men — even  the  best  of 
them — are,  morally,  very  great  cowards,  and  Bernard  was 
no  exception  to  the  rule.  Besides,  Hannah  was  not  his 
wife  or  his  betrothed ;  she  had  not  even  called  herself  his 
friend ;  she  had  given  him  no  rights  over  her,  asked  no 
protection  from  him.  What  could  he  do  or  say  ?  Irreso- 
lute, he  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  excessively  uncom- 
fortable, when  Hannah  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Of  course  my  brother-in-law  will  go  without  me :  we 


HANNAH.  203 

are  quite  independent  in  our  proceedings.  And  he  will 
explain  to  Lady  Dansmore — the  utmost  it  is  necessary  to 
explain,  as  I  never  talk  of  my  private  affairs  to  any  body 
— that  I  do  not  pay  many  visits.  I  had  rather  stay  at 
home  with  my  little  girl.  That  will  be  perfectly  true," 
she  added,  her  lips  slightly  quivering.  "  I  prefer  Rosie's 
company  to  any  body's.     She  loves  me." 

Bernard  started  up,  and  then,  fearful  of  having  com- 
mitted himself,  sat  down  again.  Lady  Rivers,  though  ev- 
idently vexed,  was  equal  to  the  situation,  and  met  it  with 
a  dignified  indifference. 

"  Pray  please  yourself,  Miss  Thelluson ;  no  doubt  you 
act  upon  your  own  good  reasons.  You  are,  I  always  un- 
derstood, a  lady  who  never  changes  her  mind ;  but  if  you 
should  do  so,  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  you."  And  then  she 
passed  over  the  matter,  as  too  trivial  to  bear  further  dis- 
cussion, and  conversed  in  the  most  amiable  manner  for 
another  half-hour.  Finally,  with  a  benign  "  Good-evening, 
Miss  Thelluson ;  I  am  sure  Lady  Dunsmore  will  be  much 
disappointed  at  not  seeing  you,"  she  terminated  the  visit 
as  if  it  had  been  any  ordinary  call. 

Hannah  was  not  surprised.  It  was  the  fashion  of  the  , 
Rivers  family  not  to  see  any  thing  they  did  not  wish  to 
see.  The  only  thing  that  vexed  her  was  about  Bernard. 
He  had  said  nothing — absolutely  nothing — except  telling 
her,  when  he  took  his  hat  to  accompany  his  step-mother 
home,  that  he  would  be  back  immediately.  Was  he  dis- 
pleased Avith  her  ?  Did  he  think  she  had  acted  ill  ?  Had 
she  done  so  ?  Was  it  her  duty  to  submit  to  every  thing 
for  his  sake  ?  Surely  not.  He  had  no  right  to  expect  it. 
Was  it  because  she  loved  him  that  she  felt  so  bitterly  an- 
gry with  him  ? 

Yet  when,  sooner  than  she  had  expected,  he  returned, 
and  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  pale  and  dejected,  like  a 
man  tied  and  bound  by  fate,  who  sees  no  way  to  free  him- 
self, the  anger  melted,  the  pity  revived.  He  too  suffered 
— they  suffered  alike.  Why  should  they  reproach  one  an- 
other? 


204  HANNAH. 

"  So  you  have  had  your  way,  Hannah."  Yes,  there  was 
reproach  in  the  tone.  "  Are  you  quite  sure  you  were  right 
in  what  you  have  done  ?" 

"  Quite  sure ;  at  least,  that  unless  I  were  some  other 
than  myself,  I  could  not  have  done  differently." 

And  then  they  sat  silent,  in  stiff  coldness,  until  the  last 
ray  of  amber  twilight  had  faded  out  of  the  room.  What 
a  pretty  room  it  was  ! — just  the  place  to  be  happy  in ;  for 
friends  or  lovers,  or  husband  and  wife,  to  sit  and  dream 
together  in  the  quiet  gloaming,  which  all  happy  people 
love — which  is  so  dreadful  to  the  restless  or  the  miserable. 

"We  should  have  rung  for  lights,"  said  Bernard,  pull- 
ing violently  at  the  bell.     "  You  know  I  hate  the  dark." 

And  when  lights  came  they  saw  one  another's  faces — 
his  burning  crimson,  hers  pale  and  in  tears. 

"Oh,  Hannah,  Hannah,  how  miserable  we  are!  As  I 
said,  if  this  goes  on  much  longer,  how  shall  we  bear  it?" 

"  I  do  not  know."  Then,  steeling  herself  against  both 
anger  and  pain,  "  Bernard,"  she  said,  "  what  did  you  wish 
me  to  do  ?  Your  family  have  no  claim  upon  me,  nor  I 
upon  them.  We  are,  as  things  stand,  mere  strangers. 
Are  they  to  throw  me  off  and  pick  me  up  again  when  and 
how  they  choose  ?    Am  I  to  submit  to  it?" 

"I  did  not  ask  you." 

"  No,  but  you  looked  it.  You  would  have  liked  me  to 
go  to  the  Moat  House." 

"Yes.  I  wish  you  to  be  friends  with  them.  I  want 
them  to  love  you." 

"They  do  not  love  me;  they  only  receive  me  on  suffer- 
ance, and  I  will  go  nowhere  on  sufferance.  I  can  live 
alone.  I  want  no  society;  but  where  I  do  go  I  want  to 
be  loved,  I  want  to  be  respected.  Oh,  Bernard !"  and  she 
looked  piteously  in  his  face, "  sometimes  I  am  tempted  to 
say,  with  you,  if  this  lasts  long,  how  shall  I  ever  bear  it  ?" 

"How  shall  I  bear  it  ?    It  is  harder  for  me  than  you." 

"  Perhaps.  But  you  forget  it  was  your  doing,  not 
mine." 

And  then  both  drew  back,  appalled  at  the  sharpness  of 


HANNAH.  205 

their  words — at  the  bitterness  of  these  mutual  recrimina- 
tions. 

Bernard  held  out  his  hand.  "Forgive  me.  You  are 
right.  It  was  I  who  brought  all  this  trouble  upon  you, 
and  now  I  have  not  strength  to  meet  it — either  for  you  or 
for  myself.  I  am  so  miserable  that  it  makes  me  wicked. 
Something  must  be  done.     What  shall  it  be  ?" 

"What,  indeed?" 

"  Hannah,  decide.  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  dead  si- 
lence. Speak  out,  for  I  can  bear  it  no  longer.  Shall  we 
part  ?     Or — will  you  marry  me  at  once  ?" 

He  could  have  hardly  known  what  he  was  saying,  or 
else,  in  his  despair,  any  thing  seemed  possible  to  him. 
Not  to  her.  She  was  very  gentle.  She  did  not  even 
draw  away  her  hands  which  he  had  grasped ;  she  scarcely 
seemed  to  recognize  the  insult  he  was  unwittingly  offer- 
ing her.  She  only  answ^ered,  sorrowfully,  yet  without  the 
slightest  indecision,  "  We  will  part." 

Three  little  words — but  they  brought  Bernard  to  his 
senses  immediately.  He  fell  on  his  knees  before  her,  and 
passionately  begged  her  forgiveness. 

"But  you  do  not  know  what  I  suffer.  Inwardly,  out- 
wardly— life  is  one  long  torment.  At  the  Moat  House  I 
have  no  peace.  They  talk  at  me — and  at  you ;  they  try 
every  means  of  worming  out  my  secret  from  me.  But 
they  shall  not.  I  will  hide  it  at  all  costs.  People  may 
guess  what  they  like,  but  w^e  are  safe  so  long  as  they 
know  nothing.  God  help  me !  I  talk  as  if  we  were  com- 
mitting a  deadly  sin,  when  my  love  of  you  is  the  best 
thing — the  only  good  thing  in  me."  He  looked  up  at 
Hannah,  and  ground  his  teeth.  "  It  is  an  accursed  law," 
he  said ;  "  a  law  made  only  for  fools  or  sinners ;  and  yet  it 
may  suffice  to  blast  both  our  lives." 

"  No,"  Hannah  answered,  "  nothing  could  do  that — ex- 
cept ourselves." 

"  A  commonplace  truth  !"  and  Bernard  laughed  bitterly. 

"  It  is  God's  truth,  though ;  His  right  and  wrong  are 
much  simpler  than  man's." 


208  HANNAH. 

"  What  is  right  and  what  is  wrong  ?  for  I  am  growing 
so  mad  I  hardly  know.  Show  me — preach  to  me ;  I  used 
to  tell  you  you  could  preach  better  than  the  clergyman. 
Only  love  me,  Hannah — if  there  is  any  love  in  that  pale, 
pure  face  of  yours.     Sometimes  I  think  there  is  none." 

"  None — oh,  Bernard,  none  ?" 

For  a  minute  she  stooped  over  him ;  for  a  minute  he  felt 
that  she  had  not  a  stone  for  a  heart.  And  then  the  strong, 
firm,  righteous  will  of  the  woman  who,  however  deeply 
loving,  could  die,  but  would  not  do  wrong,  forced  itself 
upon  him,  lulling  passion  itself  into  a  temporary  calm. 
He  leaned  his  head  against  her ;  he  sobbed  upon  her  arm 
like  a  child ;  and  she  soothed  him  almost  as  if  he  had  been 
a  child. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  she  said.  "  We  must  endure — there  is 
no  help  for  it.  It  is  a  cruel,  unjust  law, but  it  is  the  law, 
and  while  it  exists  we  can  not  break  it.  I  could  not  twist 
my  conscience  in  any  possible  way  so  as  to  persuade  my- 
self to  break  it.  'No  form  of  marriage  could  ever  make  me 
legally  your  wife." 

"  Not  in  England.     Out  of  England  it  could." 

"  But  then — as  soon  as  we  came  back  to  England,  what 
should  I  be  ?  And  if,  in  the  years  to  come —  Oh,  Ber- 
nard, it  is  impossible,  impossible  !" 

She  said  no  more  than  that — how  could  she?  But  she 
felt  it  so  intensely  that,  had  it  been  necessary,  she  would 
have  smothered  down  all  natural  shame,  and  said  out  to 
him — as  solemnly  as  if  it  had  been  a  vow  before  God — her 
determination  never,  for  any  personal  happiness  of  her  own, 
to  entail  upon  innocent  children  the  curse  of  a  tainted 
name. 

"  I  understand,"  Bernard  replied,  humbly.  "  Forgive 
me ;  I  ought  never  to  have  said  a  word  about  our  marry- 
ing. It  must  not  be.  I  must  go  on  my  way  alone  to  the 
end." 

"  Not  quite  alone — oh,  not  quite  alone." 

But,  as  if  more  afraid  of  her  tenderness  than  of  her  cold- 
ness, Bernard  rose,  and  began  walking  about  the  room. 


HANNAH.  207 

"You  must  decide — as  I  said;  for  my  own  judgment  al- 
together fails  me.  We  can  not  go  on  living  as  we  do: 
some  change  must  be  thought  of;  but  I  can  not  tell  what 
it  should  be." 

"  Why  need  it  be  ?"  said  Hannah,  timidly.  "  Can  we 
not  continue  as  we  are  ?" 

"  No."    A  fierce,  abrupt,  undeniable  No. 

"Then — I  had  better  go  away."  He  looked  so  terrified 
that  she  hastily  added,  "  Only  for  a  time,  of  course ;  till 
the  bitterness  between  you  and  your  people  softens ;  till 
we  can  see  our  way  a  little.  It  must  be  made  plain  to  us 
some  day ;  I  believe  it  always  is  to  those  who  have  inno- 
cent hearts." 

And  as  she  sat,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  pale  and  sad 
as  she  looked,  there  was  such  a  sweet  composure  in  her 
aspect  that  Bernard  stopped  and  gazed — gazed  till  the 
peace  was  reflected  on  his  own. 

"  You  are  a  saint,  and  I  am — only  a  man ;  a  very  wretch- 
ed man  sometimes.  Think  for  me — tell  me  what  I  ought 
to  do." 

Hannah  paused  a  little,  and  then  suggested  that  he 
should,  for  a  few  weeks  or  so,  part  with  Rosie  and  herself, 
and  let  them  go,  as  Ladj^  Dunsmore  had  earnestly  washed, 
to  pay  her  a  visit  in  London. 

"Did  she  say  so?"  said  Bernard,  with  sensitive  fear. 
"  Do  you  think  she  said  it  with  any  meaning — that  she 
has  any  idea  concerning  us  ?" 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  even  if  she  had,"  was  the  rath- 
er proud  answer.  Alas  !  how  quick  they  were  growing  to 
take  ofiense,  even  at  one  another.  Yes,  it  was  best  to  part. 
"  I  mean,"  Hannah  added,  "  that,  even  if  she  guessed  any 
thing,  it  would  not  signify.  I  shall  confess  nothing  ;  and 
I  have  often  heard  her  say  that  a  secret  accidentally  dis- 
covered ought  to  be  held  just  as  if  it  had  never  been  dis- 
covered at  all.  Be  satisfied — neither  Lady  Dunsmore  nor 
I  shall  betray  you,  even  to  one  another." 

And  for  a  moment  Hannah  thought  with  comfort  that 
this  good  woman  was  her  friend — had  grown  more  and 


208  HANNAH. 

more  such  as  absence  discovered  to  both  their  mutual 
worth.  It  would  be  a  relief  after  the  long  strain  to  rest 
upon  this  genial  feminine  companionship — this  warm  and 
kindly  heart. 

"  She  will  treat  me  like  a  friend,  too — not  like  her  old 
governess,  if  you  are  uneasy  about  that.  Or,  if  you  like 
it  better,  I  shall  be  received  less  as  poor  Hannah  Thelluson 
than  as  Mr.  Rivers's  sister-in-law  and  Rosie's  aunt.  I  am 
to  go  about  with  her  everywhere — she  made  me  quite  un- 
derstand that.  A  strange,  changed  life  for  me;  but  my 
life  is  all  so  strange." 

And  Hannah  sighed.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  let  her  oars 
go,  and  were  drifted  about  involuntarily,  she  knew  not 
whither,  hardly  caring  whether  she  should  ever  touch  land ; 
and  if  she  did,  whether  it  would  be  as  a  living  woman  or 
a  creature  so  broken  down  and  battered  that  she  could 
neither  enjoy  nor  suffer  any  more.  Who  could  tell  ?  Fate 
must  decide. 

Mr.  Rivers  listened  to  her  silently,  but  full  of  thought — 
thoughts  which,  perhaps,  she  could  not  have  followed  had 
she  tried.  He  was  a  very  good  man,  but  he  was  also  a 
man  of  the  world  ;  he  would  not  have  been  a  Rivers  else. 
He  saw  at  once  the  advantage  of  Lady  Dunsmore's  coun- 
tenance— not  merely  because  she  happened  to  be  a  mar- 
quis's daughter  and  an  earl's  wife,  but  because  in  any  so- 
ciety she  was  the  sort  of  person  whose  friendship  was 
valued  and  valuable.  Was  it  human  nature,  or  only  mas- 
culine nature,  that,  dearly  as  he  loved  Hannah,  Bernard 
unconsciously  prized  her  the  more  because  she  was  prized 
by  such  a  woman  as  the  Countess  of  Dunsmore  ? 

"Go,  then,"  he  said.  "I  will  not  hinder  you.  Pay 
your  visit ;  you  will  be  happy ;  and  it  will  in  many  ways 
be  a  good  thing."  Then  with  a  nervous  eagerness  that, 
in  spite  of  her  reason,  pained  Hannah  acutely,  "When 
does  she  want  you  ?    How  soon  can  you  start  ?" 

"Any  day,  since  you  are  so  glad  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"Oh,  Hannah  1" 

They  stood  side  by   side,  these   two  lovers,  between 


HANNAH.  209 

whom  was  a  barrier  slight  and  invisible  as  glass,  yet  as  im- 
possible to  be  broken  through  without  sore  danger  and 
pain.     They  could  not  break  it ;  they  dared  not. 

"  Things  are  hard  for  us — very  hard,"  said  Bernard,  al- 
most in  a  groan.  "  We  shall  be  better  apart,  at  least  for 
a  time.  I  meant  to  have  gone  away  myself  to-morrow ; 
but  if  you  will  go  instead — " 

"  I  can  not  to-morrow.     I  will  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"  Thank  you." 

She  did  not  sob,  though  her  throat  was  choking ;  she 
only  prayed.  Dimly  she  understood  what  he  was  suffer- 
ing ;  but  she  knew  he  suffered  very  much.  She  knew,  too, 
that  however  strangely  it  came  out,  in  bitterness,  anger, 
neglect,  still  the  love  was  there,  burning  with  the  intensi- 
ty of  a  smothered  fire — all  the  more  for  being  suppressed. 
The  strength  which  one,  at  least,  of  them  must  have,  she 
only  cried  to  Heaven  for — and  gained. 

"Good-by,"  she  said;  "for  we  shall  not  talk  thus  to- 
gether again.     It  is  better  not." 

"I  know  it  is.  But  you  love  me;  I  need  not  doubt 
that?" 

"  Yes,  I  love  you,"  she  whispered.  "  Whatever  happens, 
remember  that ;  and  oh  !  keep  me  in  your  heart  till  death." 

"  I  will,"  he  said ;  and  snatching  her  close,  held  her 
there,  tight  and  fast.  For  one  minute  only ;  then  letting 
her  go,  he  bade  her  once  more  "  Good-night  and  good-by," 
and  went  away. 

Three  days  after.  Miss  Thelluson,  the  child,  and  the  nurse 
started  for  London  together,  Mr.  Rivers  himself  seeing 
them  off  from  the  railway. 

Rosie  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight — to  be  "  going  in  a 
puff-puff  with  Tannie "  being  to  the  little  maid  the  crown 
of  all  human  felicity.  She  kept  pulling  at  her  papa's  hand, 
and  telling  him  over  and  over  again  of  her  bliss ;  and  ev- 
ery time  he  stopped  and  listened,  but  scarcely  answered 
a  word.  Grace,  too,  looked  glad  to  go.  Easterham,  with 
James  Dixon  still  hovering  about,  was  a  cruel  place  for 
her  to  live  in.     Hannah  only  looked  grave  and  pale ;  but 


210  HAJN^NAH. 

she  smiled  whenever  her  little  girl  smiled ;  and  to  the  one 
or  two  persons  who  spoke  to  her  at  the  railway  station, 
where,  of  course,  they  were  known  to  every  body,  she 
spoke  also  in  her  usual  gentle  way. 

Only  when  Mr.  Rivers  kissed  Rosie,  saying,  "  Papa  will 
miss  his  little  girl,"  and  then  turning,  shook  hands  with 
her  silently,  Hannah  grew  deadly  pale  for  a  minute.  That 
was  all.  The  train  moved  off,  and  she  saw  him  walking 
back,  solitary,  to  his  empty  house. 

Life  has  many  anguishes ;  but  perhaps  the  sharpest  of 
all  is  an  anguish  of  which  nobody  knows. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 


As  we  walk  along,  staggering  under  some  heavy  bur- 
den, or  bleeding  with  some  unseen  wound,  how  often  do 
the  small  perplexities  of  life  catch  at  us  unawares,  like 
briers,  and  vex  us  sore.  Hannah,  as  she  felt  herself  borne 
fast  away  from  Easterham,  conscious  of  a  sense  half  of  re- 
lief and  half  of  bitter  loss,  was  conscious,  too,  of  a  ridicu- 
lously small  thing  which  had  not  occurred  to  her  till  now, 
and  which  she  would  never  have  cared  for  on  her  own  ac- 
count, but  she  did  on  Bernard's.  This  was.  How  would 
Lady  Dunsmore  manage  to  receive  back  in  her  household, 
as  an  equal  and  familiar  friend,  her  ci-devant  governess  ? 
Not  that  Miss  Thelluson  had  ever  been  treated  in  the  way 
governesses  are  said  to  be  treated,  though  it  is  usually 
their  own  fault ;  but  she  had,  of  course,  taken  her  position, 
both  with  guests  and  servants,  simply  as  the  governess, 
and  never  sought  to  alter  it.  But  this  position  Rosie's 
aunt  and  Mr.  Rivers's  sister-in-law  could  no  longer  suita- 
bly hold.  As  the  cab  drove  up  to  the  old  family  mansion 
in  Mayfair  which  she  knew  so  well,  Hannah  felt  a  sense  of 
uncomfortableness  for  which  she  was  almost  angry  with 
herself. 

But  it  was  needless.  Lady  Dunsmore  had  that  true  no- 
bility which,  discovering  the  same  in  others,  recognizes  it 


HANNAH.  211 

at  once,  and  acts  accordingly.  The  slight  difficulty  which 
an  inferior  woman  might  have  bungled  over,  she,  with  her 
gracious,  graceful  frankness,  solved  at  once. 

"  You  will  establish  Miss  Thelluson  and  her  niece  in  the 
blue  rooms,"  said  she  to  the  housekeeper,  who,  seeing  who 
the  arrival  was,  came  forward  with  a  pleased  but  patroniz- 
ing air.  "And  see  that  every  thing  is  made  comfortable 
for  the  child  and  nurse,  and  that  my  friend  here  shall  feel 
as  much  at  home  as  if  she  were  in  her  own  house." 

"  Certainly,  my  lady."  And  the  wise  old  woman  slip- 
ped quietly  behind  her  back  the  hand  she  was  extending 
to  Miss  Thelluson,  till  Miss  Thelluson  took  and  shook  it 
cordially,  then,  courtesying,  Mrs.  Rhodes  followed  her  re- 
spectfully to  the  blue  rooms,  which,  as  every  body  knew, 
being  in  communication  with  the  countess's,  were  never 
assigned  but  to  her  favorite  guests. 

Thus  domestically,  the  critical  point  was  settled  at  once. 
Socially,  too,  with  equal  decision. 

"  My  friend.  Miss  Thelluson,"  said  Lady  Dunsmore,  in- 
troducing her  at  once  to  two  ladies,  aunts  of  Lord  Duns- 
more,  who  were  in  the  drawing-room,  and  whom  Hannah 
knew  well  enough,  as  they  her,  by  sight.  "We  are  so 
glad  to  have  her  back  among  us,  with  her  little  niece. 
She  will  be  such  a  welcome  visitor,  and  my  little  girls  will 
perfectly  spoil  the  child,  if  only  for  her  sake :  they  were 
so  fond  of  Miss  Thelluson." 

And  when,  to  prove  this,  Lady  Blanche  and  Lady  Mary 
came  in  leading  little  Rosie  between  them,  and  clung  lov- 
ingly round  their  old  governess's  neck,  Hannah  felt  perfect- 
ly happy — ay,  even  though  Bernard  was  far  away;  and 
the  remembrance  of  him  striding  forlornly  to  his  deserted 
home,  came  across  her  like  a  painful,  reproachful  vision. 
And  yet  it  was  not  unnatural.  The  transition  from  per- 
plexity to  peace,  from  suspicion  to  tender  respect,  from  in- 
difference or  coldness  to  warm,  welcoming  love,  was  very 
sweet.  Not  until  the  strain  was  taken  off  her  did  Hannah 
feel  how  terrible  it  had  been. 

When  Lady  Dunsmore,  as  if  to  prove  decisively  the  fu- 


212  HANNAH. 

ture  relation  in  which  they  were  to  stand,  came  into  her 
room  before  dinner,  and  sitting  down  in  her  white  dress- 
ing-gown before  the  hearth — where  aunt  and  niece  were 
arranging  together  a  beautiful  Noah's  ark — put  her  hand 
on  Miss  Thelluson's  shoulder,  saying, "  My  dear,  I  hope  you 
will  make  yourself  quite  happy  with  us,"  Hannah  very 
nearly  broke  down. 

The  countess  stooped  and  began  caressing  the  child, 
making  solemn  inquiries  of  her  as  to  Noah  and  Mrs.  ISToah, 
their  sons  and  sons'  wives,  and  arranging  them  in  a  digni- 
fied procession  across  the  rug. 

"What  a  happy-looking  little  woman  she  is — this  Ro- 
sie  !  And  I  hope  her  auntie  is  happy  too  ?  As  happy  as 
she  expected  to  be  ?" 

Hannah's  self-control  was  sorely  tested.  This  year  past 
she  had  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  mingled  bliss  and  tor- 
ment, of  passionate  love  and  equally  passionate  coldness ; 
been  exposed  to  alternations  of  calm  civility  and  rudeness 
almost  approaching  unkindness ;  but  it  was  long  since  any 
one — any  woman — had  spoken  to  her  in  that  frank,  affec- 
tionate tone.  She  felt  that  Lady  Dunsmore  understood 
her;  and  when  two  good  women  once  do  this  they  have  a 
key  to  one  another's  hearts,  such  as  no  man,  be  he  ever  so 
dear,  can  quite  get  hold  of 

As  Hannah  laid  her  cheek  against  the  pretty  soft  hand 
— none  the  less  soft  that  its  grasp  was  firm,  and  none  the 
less  pretty  that  it  sparkled  with  diamonds — the  tears  came 
stealing  down,  and  with  them  was  near  stealing  out  that 
secret  which  all  the  taunts  in  the  world  would  never  have 
forced  from  her. 

But  it  must  not  be.  It  would  compromise  not  herself 
alone.  She  knew  well — she  had  long  made  up  her  mind 
to  the  fact — that  unless  Bernard  and  she  could  be  legally 
married,  the  relations  between  them  must  be  kept  strictly 
between  their  two  selves.  The  world  might  guess  as  it 
chose,  accuse  as  it  chose,  but  not  one  confirmatory  word 
must  it  get  out  of  either  of  them.  Out  of  her,  certainly, 
it  never  should. 


HANNAH.  213 

Therefore  she  looked  steadily  tip  into  her  friend's  face. 
"  Yes ;  my  little  girl  makes  me  very  happy.  You  were 
right  in  once  saying  that  a  woman  is  only  half  a  woman 
till  she  has  a  child.  Of  her  own,  you  meant ;  but  it  is  true 
even  if  not  her  own.  I  have  found  it  to  be  so.  I  have  al- 
most forgotten  I  am  not  Rosie's  mother." 

And  then,  aware  of  a  keen  inquisitiveness  in  Lady  Duns- 
more's  look,  Hannah  blushed  violently. 

The  countess  dropped  down  again  beside  Noah's  ark, 
and  occupied  herself,  to  Rosie's  intense  delight,  in  making 
a  bridge  over  which  all  the  animals  could  pass  out,  till  the 
child  and  her  new  playfellow  became  the  best  of  friends. 

"  Rosie  is  not  much  like  her  father,  I  think ;  and  yet  she 
has  a  look  of  him — his  bright,  merry  look,  such  as  he  had 
before  his  trouble  came.  Is  he  getting  over  it  at  all  ?  It 
is  now  a  good  while  since  your  poor  sister  died." 

"  Rosie's  age  tells  it — nearly  three  years." 

"That  is  a  long  time  for  a  man  to  mourn  nowadays. 
But " — checking  herself — "  I  always  thought  Mr.  Rivers 
very  faithful-hearted,  constant  in  his  friendships,  and,  there- 
fore, in  his  loves ;  and  knowing  how  forlorn  a  man  is  who 
has  once  been  married,  I,  for  one,  should  never  blame  him 
if  he  made  a  second  choice." 

Hannah  was  silent ;  then  seeing  Lady  Dunsraore  paused 
for  some  acquiescence,  she  gave  it  in  one  or  two  meaning- 
less words. 

"And  meantime,  I  conclude,  you  remain  at  Easterham. 
Your  brother-in-law  evidently  appreciates  your  society, 
and  the  blessing  you  are  to  his  little  girl.  He  said  as  much 
to  me.  He  told  me  he  did  not  know  what  Rosie  would 
have  done  without  you,  and  that  you  and  she  are  never  to 
be  parted.     Is  it  so  ?" 

"He  has  promised  me  that  I  shall  have  her  always." 

"  Even  in  case  of  his  second  marriage  ?  But  I  beg  your 
pardon ;  I  really  have  no  right  to  be  curious  about  Mr. 
Ilivers's  domestic  arrangements — I  know  him  too  slightly ; 
but  yet  I  can  not  help  taking  an  interest  in  him,  for  his 
own  sake  as  well  as  for  yours." 


214  HANNAH. 

She  pressed  the  hand  she  held,  but  asked  no  further 
questions — made  no  attempt  whatever  to  find  out  what 
Hannah  did  not  choose  to  tell.  That  noble  confidence 
which  exists  among  women  oftener  than  they  are  given 
credit  for — when  each  knows  quite  well  the  other's  secret, 
but  never  betrays  either  to  her  friend  or  a  stranger  the  si- 
lent, mutual  trust — was  henceforward  established  between 
the  two.  The  moment  Lady  Dunsmore  had  closed  the 
door,  after  talking  a  good  while  of  Dunsmore  topics,  of  her 
daughters,  her  husband,  and  a  journey  she  wanted  to  take, 
only  was  hindered  by  Lord  Dunsmore's  determination  to 
wait  and  vote  for  a  bill  that  he  greatly  desired  to  see  pass 
the  House  of  Lords — "  the  Bill  concerning  deceased  wives' 
sisters,  in  which  you  know  he  was  always  so  interested  " — 
Hannah  felt  certain  that  this  sharp-witted  little  lady 
guessed  her  whole  position  as  well  as  if  she  had  told  it. 
Also  that  she  would  keep  the  discovery  herself,  and  aid  in 
defending  it  from  the  outside  world,  as  sacredly  as  if  she 
had  been  pledged  to  inviolable  secrecy  and  bound  by  the 
honor  of  all  the  Dacres  and  Dunsmores. 

With  a  sense  of  self-respect  and  self-contentedness  great- 
er than  she  had  known  for  some  time,  Hannah  dressed  for 
dinner.  Carefully,  too  ;  for  Bernard's  sake  ;  since,  if  the 
countess  guessed  any  thing,  she  would  have  liked  her  to 
feel  that  it  was  not  so  unnatural,  Bernard's  loving  her. 
On  his  account  she  was  glad  to  be  held  an  honored  guest 
— glad  to  be  met  cordially,  and  talked  to  with  courteous 
attention  at  dinner-time  by  a  man  like  the  Earl  of  Duns- 
more, who,  though  rumor  said  his  wife  had  made  him  all 
that  he  was — had  roused  him  from  the  dolcefar  niente  life 
of  an  idle  young  nobleman  into  a  hard-working  man — was 
a  person  who  in  any  rank  of  life  would  have  been  useful 
and  esteemed.  And  he  spoke  of  Bernard,  whom  he  said 
he  had  met  several  times  when  in  London,  with  warm  re- 
gard. 

This  w^as  sweet  to  her ;  and  equally  sweet  was  the  un- 
conscious contrast  of  coming  back  to  her  old  haunts  under 
new  conditions  and  circumstances.     Often,  during  some 


HANNAH.  215 

pause  of  silence,  she  secretly  counted  up  her  blessings — 
how  rich  she  was,  Avho  had  once  been  so  poor.  And  when, 
at  dessert,  there  stole  in,  hand-in-hand  with  little  Lady 
Isabel,  who  had  grown  from  a  baby  into  a  big  girl  since 
Miss  Thelluson  left,  a  certain  white  fairy  in  blue  ribbons, 
who,  looking  round  the  dazzling  room  with  a  pretty  be- 
wilderedness,  caught  sight  of  one  known  face,  and  ran  and 
hid  her  own  lovingly  in  Tannie's  lap,  Tannie's  heart  leaped 
with  joy.  The  child — her  own  child  ! — nothing  and  no- 
body could  take  that  treasure  from  her.  She  and  Bernard 
might  never  be  married ;  weary  of  long  waiting,  he  might 
give  up  loving  her,  and  marry  some  one  else ;  but  he  was 
a  man  of  honor — he  would  always  leave  her  the  child. 

"Rosie  does  you  the  greatest  credit,"  said  Lord  Duns- 
more,  smiling  at  the  little  woman,  and  trying  to  win  her 
— but  vainly — from  Tannie's  arms.  "She  is  a  charming 
child." 

Hannah  laughed.  "  Then  you  will  indorse  the  proverb 
about  old  maids'  children  ?"  said  she. 

Was  it  because  he  looked  at  her,  or  because  of  her  own 
conscious  heart,  that  one  of  those  horrible  sudden  blushes 
came,  and  with  it  the  sense  of  hypocrisy — of  always  bear- 
ing about  with  her  a  secret,  which,  sinless  as  she  felt  it 
was,  every  body  might  not  consider  so  ?  For  even  this 
night,  though  the  dinner-circle  was  small.  Lord  Dunsmore's 
known  advocacy  of  the  Bill  caused  it  to  be  discussed  on 
all  sides,  argued  pro  and  con  by  friends  and  enemies,  in  a 
way  that  neither  host  nor  hostess  could  repress  without  at- 
tracting attention.  At  length,  perhaps  out  of  wise  kind- 
ness, they  ceased  trying  to  repress  it ;  and  Hannah  heard 
the  whole  question  of  whether  a  man  might  or  might  not 
marry  his  deceased  w^ife's  sister  argued  out  logically  and 
theologically  as  she  had  never  heard  it  before,  together 
with  all  the  legal  chances  for  and  against  the  Bill.  She 
could  not  shut  her  ears — she  dared  not :  for  what  to  all 
these  others  was  a  mere  question  of  social  or  political 
opinion,  was  to  her  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  So  she  sat 
quiet,  keeping,  by  a  strong  eJBTort,  her  countenance  as  still 


216  HANNAH. 

as  a  stone,  and  her  voice,  when  she  had  to  speak,  just  like 
that  of  any  other  dinner-table  guest,  who  joined  placidly, 
or  carelessly,  or  combatively  in  the  conversation  that  was 
going  on.  It  was  best  so ;  best  to  buckle  on  at  once  the 
armor  that,  in  all  probability,  she  would  have  to  wear 
through  life. 

Lord  Dunsmore  seemed  hopeful  of  his  cause.  He  had 
entered  into  it,  unlike  many  others,  from  purely  impersonal 
motives — from  a  simple  sense  of  right  and  justice;  and  he 
had  a  strong  faith,  he  said,  that  the  right  would  conquer 
at  last. 

"  Not,"  he  added,  laughing,  "  that  I  want  to  compel  ev- 
ery man  to  marry  his  deceased  wife's  sister,  as  some  peo- 
ple seem  to  think  I  do ;  I  am  sure  I  have  not  the  slightest 
wish  ever  to  marry  mine !  But  I  consider  all  restrictions 
upon  marriage  made  by  neither  God  nor  nature  a  mistake 
and  a  wrong.  And  any  law  which  creates  a  false  and 
unnatural  position  between  man  and  woman  is  an  equal 
wrong.  Let  there  be  no  shams.  Let  a  man  have  his  nat- 
ural mother,  sister,  wife,  but  no  anomalous  relationships, 
which,  pretending  to  all,  are  in  reality  none  of  the  three." 

"And,"  said  Lady  Dunsmore,  mischievously,  "such  is 
the  nature  of  man,  that  when  all  these  pretty  pretenses 
were  broken  down,  and  a  man  must  either  marry  a  lady 
or  have  nothing  to  say  to  her,  I  believe  he  would  choose 
the  latter  course.  You  are  such  contradictory  creatures, 
you  men,  that  I  suspect  as  soon  as  all  of  you  might  marry 
your  wives'  sisters  you  would  none  of  you  desire  to  do  it ! 
But,  come,  we  ladies  have  had  enough  of  the  Marriages 
Bill,  though  every  body  must  put  up  with  it  in  this  house ; 
for  when  my  husband  gets  a  hobby  he  rides  it  to  death. 
I  ride  with  him,  too,  on  this  one,"  she  added,  as,  stepping 
aside  to  let  her  matron  guests  pass  into  the  drawing-room, 
she  quietly,  and  without  any  apparent  intention,  took  hold 
of  Miss  Thelluson's  hand.  There  was  something  in  the 
warm,  firm  clasp  so  sympathetic  that,  for  very  gratitude, 
Hannah  could  have  w^ept. 

The  subject  ended  with  the  closing  of  the  dining-room 


HANNAH.  217 

door ;  no  one  suspected  for  a  moment  that  one  guest  pres- 
ent had  a  vital  interest  therein.  The  ladies  gathered 
round  the  fire,  and  the  countess,  who  was  as  popular  and 
agreeable  with  her  own  sex  as  she  was  wath  gentlemen, 
began  talking  gayly  of  other  things.  And  so  Hannah's 
ordeal,  from  which  no  one  could  save  her,  from  which  it 
would  have  been  dangerous  to  attempt  to  save  her,  passed 
by  for  the  time  being. 

It  was  a  very  happy  evening ;  not  exactly  a  family  even- 
ing— the  public  life  the  Dunsmores  led  precluded  that — 
but  with  a  great  deal  of  familiness  about  it:  more  than 
Hannah  had  ever  imagined  could  be,  in  the  days  when  she 
sat  aloof  in  her  attic  parlor,  and  spent  her  lonely  evenings, 
empty  of  love,  and  feeling  that  love  would  never  revisit 
her  more.  Now,  when  she  saw  Lord  Dunsmore  speak  ca- 
ressingly to  his  wife,  and  watched  one  young  couple  slip 
away  into  the  inner  parlor — Lady  Dunsmore  had  a  pro- 
verbial faculty  of  allowing  young  people  to  fall  in  love  at 
her  house ;  not  make  a  marriage,  but  really  fall  in  love — 
Hannah  remembered,  with  a  strange  leap  of  the  heart,  that 
her  love-days,  too,  were  to  come — not  past. 

Yes,  she  had  been  loved  —  she  was  loved  —  even  like 
these.  She  had  felt  once — just  once — Bernard's  arms  close 
around  her,  and  his  kiss  upon  her  mouth ;  and  when,  sol- 
emnly and  tenderly  rather  than  passionately,  she  thought 
of  this  —  in  the  very  house  and  among  the  very  people 
where  she  had  once  been  so  lonely,  yet  not  unblest  or  dis- 
contented in  her  loneliness — it  seemed  as  if  she  could  never 
be  lonely  any  more. 

When  she  quitted  the  drawing-room — coming  out  of  the 
glitter  and  the  show,  yet  not  unreal  or  painful  show,  for 
there  was  heart-warmth  beneath  it  all  —  and  went  back 
into  her  own  room,  Hannah  was  happy  too. 

For  there,  from  a  crib  in  the  corner,  came  the  soft  breath- 
ing of  "auntie's  darling,"  who  always  slept  beside  her  now. 
She  had  taken  her  during  some  slight  illness  of  Grace's, 
and  could  not  again  relinquish  the  fond  charge.  It  gave 
her  such  a  sense  of  rest  and  peace  and  content — the  mere 

K 


218  HANNAH. 

consciousness  of  little  Rosie  asleep  beside  her — it  seemed 
to  drive  away  all  the  evil  angels  that  sometimes  haunted 
her,  the  regrets  and  despondencies  over  a  lot  that  such  a 
little  more  would  have  made  quite  perfect,  and  yet  that 
little  could  not  be — regrets  all  the  sharper  that  they  were 
not  altogether  for  herself.  For  she  had  Rosie;  and  she 
was  secretly,  almost  contritely,  aware  that  Rosie  was  al- 
most enough  to  make  her  happy.  Not  so  with  Bernard. 
As  she  sat  over  her  pleasant  fire  she  could  have  blamed  her- 
self for  that  peace  of  heart  in  which  he  could  not  share. 

He  had  begged  her  to  write  to  him  regularly,  and  she 
had  agreed;  for  she  saw  no  reason  why  both  should  not 
take  every  comfort  that  fate  allowed  them.  Yet  when 
she  sat  down  she  knew  not  what  to  say.  How  w^as  she  to 
write  to  him — as  her  brother,  her  friend,  her  betrothed? 
He  was  all  three,  and  yet  neither;  and  he  might  never  be 
any  thing  else. 

She  dropped  her  pen,  and  fell  into  deep  thought.  Put- 
ting herself  entirely  aside,  w^as  it  right  to  allow  Bernard, 
a  young  man  in  the  prime  of  his  days,  to  bind  himself  by 
an  uncertain  bond,  which  debarred  him  from  the  natural 
joys  of  life,  and  exposed  him  to  the  continual  torment  of 
hope  deferred,  which  to  a  woman  would  be  hard  enough, 
but  to  a  man  was  all  but  unendurable  ? 

Now  that  she  was  away  from  Easterham — escaped  from 
the  nightmare-like  influence  of  the  life,  half  bliss,  half  tor- 
ture, which  she  had  led  there — she  tried  to  feel  in  this  new 
place  like  a  new  person,  and  to  judge  her  own  position 
calmly,  as  if  it  had  been  that  of  some  one  else.  She  thought 
over,  deliberately,  every  word  she  had  heard  from  Lord 
Dunsmore  and  others  that  night,  and  tried  to  count  what 
reasonable  chances  there  were  of  the  only  thing  which 
w^ould  ever  make  her  Bernard's  wife — the  passing  of  the 
Bill  they  had  talked  about.  Yain  speculation,  as  hundreds 
in  this  land  know  only  too  well.  The  result  was,  that  in- 
stead of  the  letter  she  had  meant  to  write,  she  sat  down 
and  wrote  another :  such  a  one  as  many  a  woman  has  writ- 
ten, too,  Avith  bleeding  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  though 


HANNAH.  219 

the  words  may  have  been  calm  and  cold.  She  implored 
him  for  his  own  sake  to  consider  whether  he  could  not  con- 
quer his  ill-fated  love  for  herself,  and  find  among  the  many- 
charming  girls  he  was  always  meeting  some  one  whom  he 
could  love  and  marry,  and  be  happy. 

"  I  only  want  you  to  be  happy,"  she  wrote.  "  I  shall 
never  blame  you — never  tell  any  human  being  you  once 
cared  for  me.  And  you  will  think  of  me  tenderly  still — 
as  you  do  of  my  sister  Rosa.  And  you  will  leave  me 
Rosa's  child?" 

Then  she  planned,  in  her  clear,  common-sense  way,  how 
this  was  to  be  managed ;  how  he  was  to  pay  her  a  yearly 
sum — she  would  refuse  nothing — for  the  maintenance  of 
her  niece,  whom  she  would  herself  educate,  perhaps  abroad, 
which  would  make  an  ostensible  reason  for  the  separation. 

"  She  will  comfort  me  for  all  I  lose,  more  than  you  think. 
She  will  be  a  bit  of  her  mother  and  of  you  always  beside 
me ;  and  your  letting  me  take  care  of  her  will  be  almost 
equivalent  to  your  taking  care  of  me,  as  you  wanted  to 
do,  but  my  hard  fate  would  not  allow  it." 

And  then  all  she  was  resigning  rushed  back  upon  Han- 
nah's mind  —  the  sweetness  of  being  loved,  the  tenfold 
sweetness  of  loving. 

"  Oh,  my  Bernard,  my  Bernard !"  she  sobbed,  ancf 
thought  if  she  could  once  again,  for  only  one  minute,  have 
her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  the 
giving  him  up  would  be  less  hard.  And  she  wondered  how 
she  could  have  been  so  thoughtlessly  happy  an  hour  ago, 
when  things  were  in  exactly  the  same  position  as  now, 
only  she  saw  them  in  a  different  light.  Hers  was  one  of 
those  bitter  destinies,  in  which  the  aspect  of  circumstances, 
often  even  of  duties,  changed  every  hour. 

Still  re-reading  her  letter,  she  felt  it  must  go,  just  a3  it 
was.  It  was  right  he  should  know  her  exact  mind,  and  be 
set  free  to  act  as  was  best  for  himself  She  finished  and 
sealed  it ;  but  she  wej^t  over  it  very  much — so  much  that 
her  child  heard  her. 

A  little  white  ghost  witli  rosy  cheeks  peeped  over  the 


220  HANNAH. 

crib  side,  and  stared,  half-frightened,  round  the  unfamiliar 
room. 

"  Rosie  wake  up  !     Tannie  tying  !    Then  Rosie  ty  too." 
Then  came  a  little  wail — "  Tannie  take  her,  in  Tannie  own 


arms 


t" 


No  resisting  that.  All  love-anguish,  love-yearning,  fled 
far  away ;  and  Hannah  half  forgot  Bernard  in  her  innocent 
passion  for  Bernard's  child. 

The  letter  went,  but  it  brought  no  answer  back.  At 
first  Hannah  scarcely  expected  one.  He  would  naturally 
take  time  to  consider  his  decision,  and  she  had  put  it  to 
him  as  an  absolute  decision,  proposing  that,  after  this 
event,  neither  she  nor  Rosie  should  go  back  to  Easterham. 
If  he  was  to  be  free,  the  sooner  he  was  free  the  better. 
Suspense  was  sore,  as  she  knew. 

A  letter  of  his  had  crossed  hers,  written  at  the  very  hour 
she  wrote,  but  in  oh !  such  a  different  tone — a  real  love- 
letter,  out  of  the  deepest  heart  of  an  impulsive  man,  to 
whom  nothing  seems  impossible.  How  hard,  how  cruel 
must  hers  have  seemed !  Still,  she  was  glad  she  had  writ- 
ten it.  More  and  more  the  misery  of  a  woman  who  feels 
that  her  love  is  not  a  blessing  but  a  misfortune  to  her 
lover  forced  itself  upon  Hannah's  mind.  Through  all  the 
present  pleasantness  of  her  life  —  her  long  idle  mornings 
with  her  darling,  her  afternoons  with  Lady  Dunsmore, 
shopping,  visiting,  or  enjoying  that  charming  companion- 
ship which  was  fast  growing  into  the  deliberate  friendship 
of  middle  age,  often  firmer  than  that  of  youth— through 
all  this  came  the  remembrance  of  Bernard,  not  as  a  joy,  as 
at  first,  but  an  actual  pain. 

For  his  silence  continued:  nay,  seemed  to  be  intention- 
ally maintained.  He  forwarded  her  letters  in  blank  enve- 
lopes, without  a  single  word.  Was  he  offended  ?  Had  she, 
in  her  very  love,  struck  him  so  hard  that  he  could  not  for- 
give the  blow  ? 

"  I  hope  your  brother-in-law  is  well,"  Lady  Dunsmore 
would  say,  courteously  looking  away  while  Hannah  opened 
the  daily  letter,  at  first  Avith  a  trembling  anxiety,  afterward 


HANNAH.  221 

with  a  stolid  patience  that  expected  nothing.  "  We  shall 
be  delighted  to  see  him  here.  And  tell  him  he  ought  to 
come  soon,  or  his  little  girl  will  forget  him.  Three  weeks 
is  a  long  trial  of  memory  at  her  age." 

"  Ohj  Rosie  will  not  forget  papa.  And  he  is  busy — very 
busy  in  his  parish."  For  Hannah  could  not  bear  he  should 
be  thought  to  neglect  his  child. 

Yet  how  explain  that  she  could  not  deliver  the  message, 
could  not  write  to  him,  or  ask  him  to  come  ?  His  possible 
coming  was  the  greatest  dread  she  had.  Apart  from  him 
she  could  be  stern  and  prudent ;  but  she  knew  if  he  stood 
before  her,  with  his  winning  looks  and  ways — his  sisters 
sometimes  declared  that  from  babyhood  nobody  ever  could 
say  no  to  Bernard — all  her  wisdom  would  melt  away  in 
utter  tenderness. 

By-and-by  the  fear  or  the  hope  —  it  seemed  a  strange 
mixture  of  both — came  true.  One  day,  returning  from  a 
drive,  leaving  Lady  Dunsmore  behind  somewhere,  she  was 
told  there  was  a  gentleman  waiting  for  her. 

^'Papa!  papa!  Dat  papa's  stick!"  shrieked  Rosie,  in 
an  ecstasy,  as  her  sharp  young  eyes  caught  sight  of  it  in 
the  hall. 

Hannah's  heart  stood  still;  but  she  must  go  on;  the 
child  dragged  her.  And  Rosie,  springing  into  papa's  arms, 
was  a  shield  to  her  aunt  greater  than  she  knew. 

Mr.  Rivers  kissed  his  little  girl  fondly.  Then,  wasting 
no  time  in  sentiment,  the  butterfly  creature  struggled 
down  from  him,  and  offered  him  a  dilapidated  toy. 

"  Rosie's  horse  broken — papa  mend  it." 

"  Papa  wishes  he  could  mend  it,  with  a  few  other  broken 
things !"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  bitterly,  till,  seeing  Rosie's  piti- 
ful face,  he  added,  "  Never  mind,  my  little  woman ;  papa 
will  try.  Go  with  Grace,  and  I  will  come  and  see  Rosie 
presently." 

And  so  he  shut  the  door  upon  nurse  and  child,  in  a  way 
that  made  Hannah  see  clearly  he  was  determined  to  speak 
with  her  alone.  But  his  first  words  were  haughty  and 
cold. 


222  HANNAH. 

"I  suppose  it  is  scarcely  necessary  for  me  to  apologize 
for  coming  to  see  my  daughter?  I  had  likewise  another 
errand  in  London — Adeline  is  here,  consulting  a  doctor. 
She  has  been  worse  of  late." 

"  I  am  very  sorry." 

Then  he  burst  out :  "  You  seem  to  be  sorry  for  every 
body  in  the  world  —  except  me!  How  could  you  write 
me  that  letter  ?  As  if  my  fate  were  not  hard  enough  be- 
fore, but  you  must  go  and  make  it  harder." 

"  I  wished  to  lighten  it." 

"  How  ?  By  telling  me  to  go  and  marry  some  one  else  ? 
What  sort  of  creature  do  you  think  a  man  must  be — more, 
what  sort  of  creature  is  he  likely  to  grow  to — who  loves 
one  woman  and  marries  another?  For  I  love  you.  You 
may  not  be  young,  or  beautiful,  or  clever.  I  sometimes 
wonder  what  there  is  about  you  that  makes  me  love  you. 
I  fight  against  my  love  with  every  argument  in  my  power. 
But  there  it  is,  and  it  will  not  be  beaten  down.  I  will 
marry  you,  Hannah,  if  I  can.  If  not,  I  will  have  as  much 
of  you — your  help,  your  companionship — as  ever  I  can. 
When  are  you  coming  home  ?" 

"Home?" 

"I  say  it  is  home:  it  must  be.  Where  else  should  you 
go  to  ?  I  can  not  be  parted  from  my  daughter.  liosie 
can  not  be  parted  from  you.  For  Rosie's  sake,  my  house 
must  be  your  home." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  said  Hannah,  wringing  her  hands. 
"What  shall  I  do?" 

She  thought  she  had  made  her  meaning  plain  enough ; 
but  here  was  the  work  all  to  do  over  again.  If  she  had 
ever  doubted  Bernard's  loving  her,  she  had  no  doubt  of  it 
now.  It  was  one  of  those  mysterious  attractions,  quite  in- 
dependent of  external  charms,  and  deepened  by  every  in- 
fluence that  daily  intimacy  can  exercise.  She  fully  be- 
lieved him  when  he  said,  as  he  kept  saying  over  and  over 
again,  that  if  he  did  not  marry  her  he  would  never  marry 
any  other  woman.  And  was  she  to  bid  him  go  away,  and 
never  see  her  more  ?     This,  when  their  love  was  no  unlioly 


HANNAH.  223 

love,  when  it  trenched  upon  no  natural  rights,  when  no 
living  liioul  could  be  harmed  by  it,  and  many  benefited,  as 
well  as  they  themselves  ? 

Hannah  could  not  do  it.  All  her  resolutions  melted  into 
air,  and  she  let  him  see  that  it  was  so.  Anyhow,  he  saw 
his  power,  and  used  it.  With  a  hungry  heart  he  clasped 
and  kissed  her. 

"Now  we  are  friends  again.  I  have  been  hating  you 
for  days,  but  I'll  forgive  you  now\  You  will  not  write 
me  any  more  such  letters  ?  We  will  try  not  to  quarrel 
again." 

"  Quarrel !  oh,  Bernard!"  and  then  she  made  him  let  her 
go,  insisting  that  they  must  be  friends,  and  only  friends, 
just  now. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Only  let 
me  hold  your  hand." 

And  so  they  sat  together,  silent,  for  ever  so  long,  till 
both,  had  recovered  from  their  agitation.  Hannah  made 
him  tell  her  about  Adeline,  who  was  fast  declining,  no- 
body quite  saw  why;  but  they  thought  some  London 
doctor  might  find  it  out.  And  Adeline  herself  was  eager 
to  come. 

"  Chiefly,  I  think,  because  you  are  here.  She  wants 
you,  she  says.  She  will  not  have  any  of  her  own  sisters 
to  nurse  her ;  to  Bertha  especially  she  has  taken  a  violent 
dislike,  only  we  don't  mind  the  fancies  of  an  invalid.  I 
brought  Adeline  up  to  town  myself.  Her  husband  had 
some  business  to  attend  to ;  but  he  comes  up  with  Bertha 
to-morrow." 

"  He  should  have  come  with  his  wife  to-day ;"  and  then 
Hannah  stopped  herself.  Of  w^hat  use  was  it  to  open 
the  family  eyes  to  an  impossible  and  therefore  imaginary 
w^'ong?  What  good  would  it  do?  probably  much  harm. 
Yet  her  heart  ached  for  unfortunate  Adeline. 

She  suggested  going  at  once  to  see  her,  for  Bernard 
had  left  her  close  at  hand,  in  one  of  those  dreary  lodgings 
which  seem  chiefly  occupied  by  invalids,  the  most  of 
London  fasliionablc  physicians  living  in  streets  hard  by. 


224  HANNAH. 

Their  patients  come  to  be  near  them,  settling  down  for  a 
few  weeks  in  these  sad  rooms  to  recover  or  to  die,  as  fate 
might  choosy. 

"Yes,  do  let  me  go," repeated  Hannah.  "Shall  I  fetch 
Rosie  to  play  with  papa  while  I  leave  a  message  for  Lady 
Dunsmore  ?" 

When  she  came  back  with  the  child  in  her  arms  Ber- 
nard told  her  she  looked  quite  her  old  self  again.  So  did 
he.  And  she  was  glad  to  throw  the  shield  of  their  former 
peaceful,  simple  life  over  the  strong  passion  that  she  per- 
ceived in  him,  and  felt  more  and  more  in  herself — the 
smothered,  silent  tragedy  which  might  embitter  all  their 
coming  days. 

And  yet  when  she  found  herself  w^alking  with  him  in 
the  safe  loneliness  of  Regent  Street  crowds,  Hannah  was 
not  unhappy.  Her  long  want  of  him  had  made  him  terri- 
bly dear.  He,  too,  appeared  to  snatch  at  the  present  mo- 
ment with  a  wild  avidity. 

"  Only  to  be  together — together,"  said  he,  as  he  drew 
her  arm  through  his  and  kept  it  there.  And  the  love 
thus  cruelly  suppressed  seemed  to  both  a  thing  compared 
to  which  all  young  people's  love  —  young  people  who 
can  woo  and  marry  like  the  rest  of  the  world — was  pale 
and  colorless.  Theirs  resistance  had  but  strengthened, 
because  it  was  only  a  struggle  against  circumstance :  un- 
mingled  with  any  conscience  stings,  like  as  of  those  who 
fight  against  some  sinful  passion.  But  their  passion, 
though  legally  forbidden,  was  morally  pure  and  free  from 
blame. 

So  they  walked  on  together ;  content,  accepting  the  joy 
of  the  hour,  making  gay  remarks,  and  peeping  into  shop 
windows,  in  a  childish  sort  of  way,  till  they  reached  the 
gloomy  house  where  Bernard's  sister  lay.  Then  they  for- 
got themselves  and  thought  only  of  her. 

Adeline  was  greatly  changed.  Never  very  pretty,  now 
she  was  actually  plain.  There  was  a  sickly  ghastliness 
about  her,  a  nervous,  fretful  look,  which  might  be  either 
mental  or  physical — probably  was  a  combination  of  both. 


HANNAH.  225 

Not  a  pleasant  wife  for  a  man  to  come  home  to;  and 
young  Mr.  Melville,  who  was  a  mere  ordinary  country 
squire,  without  any  tastes  beyond  hunting,  shooting,  and 
fishing,  was  a  little  to  be  pitied  too.  Still,  men  must  take 
their  wives,  as  women  take  their  husbands,  for  better  for 
worse. 

"I  am  very  ill,  you  see.  Miss  Thelluson,"  said  the  inva- 
lid, stretching  out  a  weary  hand.  "It  was  very  kind  of 
Bernard  to  take  all  this  trouble  to  bring  me  up  to  a  Lon- 
don doctor,  but  I  don't  think  it  will  do  any  good." 

Hannah  uttered  some  meaningless  hope,  but  faintly,  for 
she  saw  death  in  the  girl's  face.  She  was  only  a  girl  still, 
and  yet  in  some  ways  it  was  the  face  of  an  old  woman. 
The  smothered  pangs  of  half  a  lifetime  seemed  written 
there. 

"I  bring  good  news,"  said  Bernard,  cheerfully.  "I 
found  a  letter  in  the  hall  saying  that  Herbert  will  be  here 
to-morrow,  possibly  even  to-night." 

Adeline  looked  up  eagerly. 

"  To-night !     And  any  body  with  him?" 

"Bertha,  I  believe.  Her  mother  insisted  she  should 
come." 

A  miserable  fire  flashed  in  the  poor  sunken  eyes. 

"She  shall  not  come!  I  will  not  have  her!  I  want 
no  sisters ;  my  maid  is  nurse  enough.  Besides,  it  is  all  a 
sham,  a  wretched  sham.  Bertha  has  no  notion  of  nursing 
any  body !" 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  dear,"  said  Bernard,  sooth- 
ingly. "  Hannah,  what  do  you  say  ?  Ought  not  her  sis- 
ter to  be  with  her  ?" 

Hannah  dropped  her  eyes;  and  yet  she  felt  the  miser- 
able girl  was  watching  her  with  an  eagerness  actually 
painful,  as  if  trying  to  find  out  how  much  she  guessed 
of  her  dreary  secret ;  which,  weak  and  silly  as  she  was 
in  most  things,  poor  Adeline  had  evidently  kept  with  a 
bravery  worthy  of  a  better  cause. 

"  I  see  no  use  in  Bertha's  coming,"  said  she  again,  with 
a  great  efibrt  at  self-control.     "I  know  her  better  than 

K2 


226  HANNAH. 

Hannah  does.  She  is  no  companion  to  an  invalid;  she 
hates  sickness.  She  will  be  always  with  Herbert,  not  with 
me.  I  heard  them  planning  Rotten  Row  in  the  morning 
and  theatres  every  night.  They  are  strong  and  healthy 
and  lively,  while  I — " 

The  poor  young  wife  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  will  stay  beside  her,"  whispered  Hannah  to  Bernard. 
"  Go  you  away." 

After  he  was  gone  Adeline  burst  out  hysterically:  "Keep 
her  away  from  me !  the  sight  of  her  will  drive  me  wild. 
Keep  them  all  away  from  me,  or  I  shall  betray  myself— I 
know  I  shall.  And  then  they  will  all  laugh  at  me,  and 
say  it  is  ridiculous  nonsense ;  as  perhaps  it  is.  You  see  " — 
clutching  Hannah's  hand — "  she  is  by  law  his  sister  too. 
He  couldn't  marry  her,  not  if  I  were  dead  twenty  times 
over.  Sometimes  I  wish  he  could,  and  then  they  dared  not 
go  on  as  they  do.  I  could  turn  her  out  of  the  house,  like 
any  other  strange  woman  who  was  stealing  my  husband's 
heart  from  me." 

Hannah  made  no  answer;  tried  to  seem  as  if  she  did 
not  hear.  Incurable  griefs  are  sometimes  best  let  alone ; 
but  this  of  Adeline's,  having  once  burst  its  bonds,  would 
not  be  let  alone. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  grasping  Hannah's  hand — "  you  are 
a  good  woman ;  you  will  tell  me  true — is  it  all  nonsense 
my  feeling  this  as  I  do  ?  How  would  you  feel  if  you  were 
in  my  place  ?  And  if  you  were  Bertha,  would  you  do  as 
she  does  ?  Would  you  try  to  make  your  sister's  husband 
fond  of  you,  as  he  ought  not  to  be  of  any  woman  except 
his  wife,  and  then  say,  '  Oh,  it's  all  right,  we're  brother 
and  sister?'  But  is  it  right?  Hannah  Thelluson,  is  it 
right  ?  Suppose  your  sister  had  been  living,  how  would 
it  have  been  between  you  and  Bernard  ?" 

A  startling  way  of  putting  the  question,  far  more  so 
than  the  questioner  dreamed  of.  For  a  moment  Hannah 
winced,  and  then  her  strong,  clear  common-sense,  as  well 
as  her  sense  of  justice,  came  to  the  rescue  and  righted  her 
at  once. 


HANNAH.  227 

"You  might  as  well  ask  how  would  it  have  been  be- 
tween me  and  any  other  woman's  husband  in  w^hose  house 
I  happened  to  stay.  Of  course  he  would  have  been  noth- 
ing to  me — nothing  whatever.  I  am  not  married,"  she 
added,  smiling,  "  and  I  can  not  quite  judge  of  married 
people's  feelings.  But  I  think  if  I  ever  loved  a  man  well 
enough  to  be  his  wife,  I  should  not  be  a  jealous  wife  at  all. 
Sister  or  friend  might  come  about  the  house  as  much  as 
he  chose.  I  could  trust  him,  for  I  could  trust  myself  I 
would  be  so  much  to  him  that  he  would  never  care  for  any 
body  but  me.  That  is,  while  living.  When  I  was  dead  " 
— there  Hannah  paused,  and  tried  solemnly  to  put  herself 
in  the  place  of  a  dead  wife — of  Bernard's  dead  wife  view- 
ing him  tenderly  from  the  celestial  sphere — "  if  the  same 
love  for  my  sister  or  my  friend,  which  would  be  his  deg- 
radation in  my  lifetime,  could  be  his  blessing  afterward, 
let  him  take  it  and  be  blessed !" 

Adeline  looked  astounded.  But  the  hidden  sore  had 
been  opened,  the  cleansing  healing  touch  had  been  ap- 
plied. There  was  a  reasonableness  in  her  expression  as 
she  replied : 

"  That  is  altogether  a  new  notion  of  love.  You  might 
not  feel  so  if  you  were  married,  or  if  you  were  really  fond 
of  any  body.  N'o  w  I  was  very  fond  of  Herbert,  even  when 
I  knew  he  liked  Bertha.  But  when  he  liked  me,  and  mar- 
ried me — seeing  that  it  made  him  safe  never  to  marry  my 
sister — I  thought  I  could  not  possibly  be  jealous  again. 
No  more  I  am,  in  one  sense.  They  will  never  do  any  thing 
wrong.  But  there's  a  great  deal  short  of  doing  wrong  that 
breaks  a  wife's  heart ;  and  they  have  broken  mine — they 
have  broken  mine." 

Again  rose  up  the  feeble  wail  of  the  weak,  affectionate 
soul,  who  yet  had  not  the  power  to  win  or  command  af- 
fection.    From  sheer  pity  Hannah  forbore  to  blame. 

"Why  not  speak  to  them  plainly?"  suggested  she  at 
last.    "Why  not  tell  them  they  are  making  you  unhappy  ?" 

"And  be  laughed  at  for  my  pains,  as  a  sickly,  jealous- 
minded  fool !     Because  he  can't  ever  marry  her — the  law 


228  HANNAH. 

forbids  that,  you  know.  After  I  am  dead  he  must  choose 
somebody  else,  and  she  too,  and  nobody  will  blame  them 
for  any  thing ;  and  yet  they  have  killed  me." 

"Hush — hush!"  said  Hannah;  "that  is  not  true,  not 
right.  You  yourself  allowed  they  meant  no  harm,  and 
will  never  do  any  thing  wrong." 

"What  is  wrong?"  cried  poor  Adeline,  piteously.  "I 
want  my  husband — his  company,  his  care,  his  love ;  and  I 
don't  get  him.  He  turns  to  somebody  else.  And  I  hate 
that  somebody,  even  if  she  is  my  own  sister.  And  I 
wish  I  could  drive  her  out  of  the  house  —  that  I  do !  or 
shame  her  openly,  as  if  she  were  any  strange  girl  who 
dared  come  flirting  with  my  husband.  They're  wicked 
women,  all  of  them,  and  they  break  the  hearts  of  us  poor 
wives." 

There  was  a  certain  bitter  truth  under  Adeline's  frenzied 
fancies;  but  Hannah  had  no  time  to  reply  to  either;  for, 
while  they  were  talking,  there  was  a  bustle  outside.  Gay, 
blooming,  excited  with  her  journey.  Bertha  Rivers  burst 
in,  Mr.  Melville  following  her. 

"  So  I  am  come,  Addy  dear,  though  you  didn't  want  me. 
But  you'll  be  glad  of  me,  I  know.  Why  you're  looking 
quite  rosy  again ;  isn't  she,  Herbert  ?" 

Rosy  she  was ;  for  her  cheeks  burned  like  coals.  But 
the  husband,  as  he  carelessly  kissed  her,  never  found  it 
out ;  and  Bertha,  in  her  redundant  health  and  exuberant 
spirits,  never  noticed  the  dead  silence  of  her  sister's  wel- 
come— the  sullen  way  in  which  she  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall^  and  left  them  to  their  chatter  and  their  mirth. 

It  was  the  same  all  the  evening ;  for  Hannah,  at  Ade- 
line's earnest  request,  had  staid.  Mrs.  Melville  scarcely 
spoke  a  word.  Their  plans  were  discussed,  sometimes  in- 
cluding her,  sometimes  not ;  but  all  were  talked  of  freely 
before  her.  It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  any  one  —  not 
even  to  Bernard  —  that  Adeline  was  dying.  And  with 
that  wonderful  self-command  which  perhaps  only  the  con- 
scious approach  of  death  could  have  given  to  so  weak  a 
nature,  Adeline  never  betrayed,  by  look  or  word,  the  se- 


HANNAH.  229 

cret  jealousy  that,  at  any  rate,  had  helped  to  sap  her  frail 
life  away. 

"Come  and  see  me  every  day,"  she  whispered  when 
Miss  Thelluson  wished  her  good-by.  "  I'll  try  and  remem- 
ber what  you  said;  but  please  forget  every  thing  I  said. 
Let  nobody  guess  at  it.  I  shall  not  trouble  any  of  them 
very  long." 

Hannah  walked  home,  strangely  silent  and  sad,  even 
though  she  was  beside  Bernard ;  and  feeling,  as  one  often 
is  forced  to  feel,  that  other  people's  miseries  would  per- 
haps be  worse  to  bear  than  one's  own. 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

Lady  Dunsmore  was  a  shrewd  and  far-seeing  woman. 
She  responded  with  the  utmost  civility  to  all  Miss  Bertha 
Rivers's  advances,  and  planned  no  end  of  gayeties  for  her 
and  Hannah,  from  which  the  Rivers  family  might  plainly 
see — and  she  meant  them  to  see — that  she  desired  her 
friend  Miss  Thelluson's  visit  to  be  made  as  pleasant  as 
possible. 

But  fate  and  Hannah's  own  will  stood  in  the  way.  Ad- 
eline declined  more  rapidly  than  any  one  expected ;  and 
it  soon  became  evident  that  she  was  never  likely  to  quit 
those  dull  lodgings  in  Harley  Street,  except  to  be  taken 
back  to  Easterham  in  the  one  peaceful  w^ay — as,  however 
far  off  they  died,  it  had  always  been  the  custom  to  cany 
home  all  the  Riverses.  Even  Adeline  herself  seemed  to 
understand  this. 

"  I  don't  want  to  stir  from  here ;  it  is  too  much  trouble," 
she  said  one  day  to  Hannah,  now  daily  beside  her.  "  But, 
afterward,  tell  them  they  may  take  me  home.  Not  to  the 
Grange — that  never  was  home — but  to  the  Moat  House. 
Let  them  have  me  one  night  in  the  drawing-room  there 
before  they  put  me  under  the  daisies.  And  let  Bernard 
read  the  service  over  me.     And — you  may  tell  him  and 


230  HANNAH. 

them  all  that  I  was  not  sorry  to  die — I  did  not  mind  it — I 
felt  so  tired !" 
Nevertheless 

*'0n  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies!" 

and  that  breast  was,  for  Adeline,  not  her  husband's,  but 
Hannah's.  Of  any  one  else's  nursing  she  testified  such  im- 
patience— perhaps  feeling  instinctively  that  it  was  given 
more  out  of  duty  than  love — that  gradually  both  Mr.  Mel- 
ville and  Bertha  let  her  have  her  own  way.  Things  ended 
in  Miss  Thelluson's  spending  most  of  her  time,  not  in  the 
Dunsmores'  lively  mansion,  but  in  that  dull  drawing-room, 
from  whence,  except  to  her  bedroom,  Adeline  was  never 
moved. 

"  Do  stay  with  her  as  much  as  you  can,"  entreated  Ber- 
nard, who  ran  up  for  a  day  to  London  as  often  as  he  could, 
but  who  still  saw  no  more  than  brothers  usually  see — the 
mere  outside  of  his  sister's  life.  He  knew  she  was  doomed ; 
but  then  the  doctors  had  said  Adeline  was  consumptive,  and 
not  likely  to  live  to  be  old.  "And  she  has  had  a  happy  life, 
married  to  a  good  fellow  whom  she  was  always  fond  of 
Poor  Adeline !  And  she  has  grown  so  much  attached  to 
you,  Hannah.     She  says  you  are  such  a  comfort  to  her !" 

"  I  think  I  have  rather  a  faculty  for  comforting  sick  peo- 
ple :  perhaps  because  doing  so  comforts  me." 

But  Hannah  did  not  say — where  was  the  use  of  saying  ? 
— that  this  comfort  was  to  her  not  unneeded.  The  uncer- 
tainty of  her  present  position ;  the  daily  self  suppression  it 
entailed ;  nay,  the  daily  hypocrisy — or  what  to  her  honest 
nature  felt  like  such — were  so  painful  that  sometimes  when 
Bernard  appeared  she  did  not  know  whether  she  were 
glad  or  sorry  to  see  him.  But  every  body  else — even  to 
the  Dunsmores — seemed  heartily  glad.  And  no  one  seem- 
ed to  have  the  slightest  suspicion  of  any  bond  between 
Rosie's  aunt  and  Rosie's  father  except  little  Rosie.  Some- 
times this  was  to  her  a  relief — sometimes  an  inexpressible 
pain. 

"  Good-by,  and  God  bless  you  for  all  your  goodness  to 


HANNAH.  231 

my  sister,"  said  Bernard  one  Saturday  as  he  was  going 
back  to  Easterham.  "  They  will  bless  you  one  of  these 
days,"  added  he,  tenderly — all  he  could  say,  for  he  and  she 
were  not  alone.  They  seldom  were  alone  now.  Opportu- 
nities were  so  difficult  to  make ;  and  when  made,  the  fear 
of  being  broken  in  upon  in  their  tete-d-tetes  caused  them  to 
feel  awkward  and  uncomfortable — at  least  Hannah  did. 

"  Good-by,"  she  responded,  with  a  sad,  inward  smile  at 
the  phrase  "  one  of  these  days."  Did  it  mean  when  they 
should  be  married  ?  But  that  day  might  never  come,  or 
come  when  they  were  quite  elderly  people,  and  hope  de- 
ferred had  drained  their  hearts  dry  of  all  but  the  merest 
dregs  of  love.  And  the  picture  of  the  woman  who  might 
have  been  Bernard's  wife,  happy  and  honored,  accepted  by 
his  family,  welcomed  by  his  neighbors,  reigning  joyfully 
at  the  House  on  the  Hill,  and  finally  succeeding  to  the 
Moat  House,  to  be  there  all  that  a  Lady  Rivers  should  be 
— presented  itself  bitterly  to  Hannah's  imagination.  She 
had  taken  from  him  the  chance  of  all  this,  and  more,  and 
given  him  in  return — what  ?  A  poor,  weary  heart,  which, 
though  it  was  bursting  with  love,  could  not  utter  more 
than  that  cold  "good-by." 

But  when  she  had  said  it  and  returned  to  Adeline's  bed- 
side, Hannah  forgot  the  troubles  of  life  in  the  solemnity  of 
fast-advancing  death. 

"  It  is  hard  Bernard  is  obliged  to  go,"  the  sick  girl  said, 
pitifully.  "  He  likes  to  sit  with  me  a  little,  I  can  see  that. 
T/ie]/  do  not,  and  therefore  I  don't  want  to  have  them. 
Besides,  I  can't  have  one  of  them  without  having  both; 
and  I  won't  have  both.     Nobody  could  expect  it." 

"No,"  said  Hannah,  feeling  sorrowfully  that  it  was  use- 
less to  argue  against  what  had  grown  almost  into  a  mon- 
omania, though  the  poor  sick  girl  had  still  self-control 
enough  not  to  betray  herself,  except  in  incidental,  half-in- 
telligible words  like  these.  Better  leave  it  thus,  and  let 
her  sorrow  die  with  her — one  of  the  heart-wounds  which 
nobody  avenges;  one  of  the  thefts  for  which  nobody  is 
punished. 


232  HANNAH. 

At  length,  just  in  the  middle  of  the  London  season,  when, 
one  summer  morning,  Mayfair  lay  in  the  passing  lull  be- 
tween the  closing  of  operas  and  theatres,  and  the  breaking 
up  of  late  balls,  a  cab  thundered  up  to  the  Earl  of  Duns- 
more's  door.  It  was  Mr.  Melville  coming  to  fetch  Miss 
Thelhison  to  his  wife.     She  was  dying. 

And  then  Hannah  found  out  that  the  young  man  had 
some  feeling.  Full  of  strength  and  health  himself,  he  had 
never  really  believed  in  Adeline's  illness,  still  less  her  ap- 
proaching death,  till  now,  and  it  came  upon  him  with  a 
shock  indescribable.  Overwhelmed  with  grief,  and  some- 
thing not  unlike  remorse,  during  the  twelve  hours  she  still 
lingered  he  never  quitted  her  side.  Careless  as  he  had 
been  to  his  living  wife,  to  a  wife  really  dying  he  was  the 
tenderest  husband  in  the  world.  So  much  so  that  she  once 
turned  to  Hannah  with  a  piteous  face : 

"  Oh,  if  this  could  only  last !  Couldn't  you  make  me 
well  again  ?" 

But  she  could  not  be  made  well  again ;  and  it  might 
not  have  lasted,  this  late  happiness  which  gave  her  peace 
in  dying.  Poor  Adeline  !  it  w^as  better  to  die  !  And  when 
Hannah  watched  the  big  fellow,  now  utterly  subdued  by 
the  emotion  of  the  hour,  insist  upon  feeding  his  wife  with 
every  mouthful  of  her  last  food  as  tenderly  as  if  she  were 
a  baby — sit  supporting  her  on  the  bed,  motionless  for 
hours,  till  his  limbs  were  all  cramped  and  stiff— sadder 
than  ever  seemed  the  blind  folly,  perhaps  begun  in  a  mis- 
take on  both  sides,  which  had  ended  in  letting  a  poor 
heart  first  starve  for  love,  and  then  grow  poisoned  with 
a  nameless  jealousy,  until  between  the  hunger  and  the 
poison  it  died. 

For  Adeline  did  die ;  but  her  death  was  peaceful,  and  it 
was  in  her  husband's  arms. 

"  He  is  fond  of  me,  after  all,  you  see,"  she  whispered  to 
Hannah  in  one  of  Herbert's  momentary  absences.  "  It 
was  very  foolish  of  me  to  be  so  jealous  of  Bertha.  Per- 
haps I  should  not,  had  it  been  a  thing  I  could  have  spoken 
about.     And  don't  speak  of  it  now,  please.     Only,  if  he 


HANNAH.  233 

ever  wants  to  do  as  his  father  did,  and  the  law  will  allow 
it,  tell  him  he  may  as  well  marry  Bertha  as  any  body :  I 
shall  not  mind." 

But  to  Bertha  herself,  although  she  kissed  her  in  token 
of  amity  and  farewell,  Adeline  said  not  a  word.  The  se- 
cret wound,  vainly  plastered  over,  seemed  to  bleed  even 
though  she  was  dying. 

Her  end  had  come  so  suddenly  at  last  that  no  one  from 
Easterham  had  been  sent  for ;  and  when  Bernard  arrived 
next  morning  at  his  accustomed  hour,  it  was  to  find  a  shut- 
up  house,  and  his  sister  "  away."  Then,  in  the  shock  of 
his  first  grief,  Hannah  found  out,  as  she  had  never  done 
before,  how  close,  even  with  all  their  faults,  was  the  tie 
which  bound  him  to  his  own  people.  It  touched  her  deej)- 
ly  ;  it  made  her  love  him  better,  and  honor  him  more ;  and 
yet  it  frightened  her.  For  there  might  come  a  time  when 
he  had  to  choose,  deliberately  and  decisively,  between  the 
love  of  kindred  and  the  love  of  her;  and  she  foresaw  now 
more  clearly  than  ever  how  hard  the  struggle  would  be. 

In  the  absorption  of  her  close  attendance  upon  Adeline 
she  had  heard  little  of  what  w^as  going  on  in  the  outside 
world.  Even  "the  bill" — the  constant  subject  of  discus- 
sion at  Dunsmore  House — had  faded  out  of  her  mind,  till 
such  phrases  as  "  read  the  first  time,"  "  read  the  second 
time,"  "  very  satisfactory  majority,"  and  so  on,  met  her 
ear.  Once  they  would  have  been  mere  meaningless  forms 
of  speech ;  now  she  listened  intently,  and  tried  hard  to  un- 
derstand. She  did  understand  so  far  as  to  learn  that  there 
was  every  probability  this  session  of  the  bill's  passing  the 
Commons,  and  being  carried  up  to  the  House  of  Lords, 
where,  upon  a  certain  night,  a  certain  number  of  noblemen, 
some  biased  one  way  or  other  by  party  motives,  and  a  pro- 
portion voting  quite  carelessly,  without  any  strong  feeling 
at  all  in  the  matter,  would  decide  her  happiness  and  Ber- 
nard's for  life. 

It  w^as  a  crisis  so  hard,  a  suspense  so  terrible,  that  per- 
haps it  was  as  well  this  grief  came  to  dull  it  a  little.  I^ot 
entirely.     Even  amidst  his  sorrow  for  his  sister,  Hannah 


234  HANNAH. 

could  detect  a  nervous  restlessness  in  Mr.  Rivers's  every 
movement ;  and  every  day,  too,  he  sought  eagerly  for  the 
newspaper,  and  often  his  hands  actually  trembled  as  he 
took  it  up,  and  turned  at  once  to  the  parliamentary  no- 
tices. But  he  never  said  one  word  to  Hannah,  nor  she  to 
him ;  indeed,  this  time  they  were  never  alone  at  all. 

Adeline  was  to  be  buried  at  home,  and  Mr.  Melville 
begged  that  Hannah  would  accompany  Bertha,  and  take 
her  place,  with  his  wife's  sisters  and  his  own,  at  the  fu- 
neral. Lady  Rivers,  in  a  note,  asked  the  same,  adding  a 
cordial  invitation  that  she  should  stay  at  the  Moat  House. 
Hannah  looked  at  Bernard. 

"  Yes,  go,"  he  said ;  "I  wish  it.  They  are  very  grateful 
to  you  for  your  goodness  to  her.  And  I  want  you,"  he 
continued,  in  a  low  tone,  "  to  try  to  be  one  of  us — which 
you  may  be  before  very  long." 

This  was  all;  but  Hannah  felt  forced  to  obey,  even 
though  it  cost  her  the  first  parting  from  her  child.  Only 
a  three  days'  parting,  however,  and  Bernard  seemed  so 
glad  that  she  should  go. 

She,  too,  as  she  sat  with  the  other  three  mourners — one 
in  each  corner  of  the  silent  railway-carriage — and  watched 
the  soft  rain  falling  on  the  fields  and  reddening  hedges, 
under  which,  here  and  there,  appeared  a  dot  of  yellow,  an 
early  primrose,  she  was  conscious  in  her  heart  of  a  throb 
of  hope  responding  to  the  pulses  of  the  spring;  and  once, 
suddenly  looking  up  at  Bernard,  she  fancied  he  felt  it  too. 
It  was  nature,  human  nature  ;  and  human  passion,  sup- 
pressed but  never  crushed,  waking  out  of  its  long  sleep, 
and  crying  unto  God  to  .bless  it  with  a  little  happiness, 
even  as  he  blesses  the  reviving  earth  with  the  beauty  of 
the  spring. 

Miss  Thelluson's  welcome  at  the  Moat  House,  mournful 
as  it  was,  was  kind  ;  for  they  had  all  been  touched  by  her 
kindness  to  the  dead,  and  sorrow  strikes  the  tenderest 
chord  in  every  heart.  She  had  never  liked  Bernard's  peo- 
ple so  well,  or  been  drawn  to  them  so  much,  as  during 
that  quiet  evening  when  poor  Adeline's  coffin  rested  a 


HANNAH.  235 

night  under  the  Moat  House  roof,  or  the  day  after,  when, 
with  all  'the  family,  she  followed  it  to  its  last  resting-place. 

It  was  a  curious  sensation.  To  stand  as  one  of  them — 
these  Riverses,  whom  she  loved  not,  at  best  merely  liked — 
well  aware  how  little  they  had  ever  liked  her,  and  how 
ignorant  they  were  of  the  tie  which  bound  her  to  them. 
Guiltless  as  she  knew  herself  to  be,  she  was  not  without 
a  painful  feeling  of  deception,  that  jarred  terribly  upon 
her  proud  and  candid  spirit.  She  scarcely  said  a  word  to 
Bernard,  until  he  whispered,  "  Do  speak  to  me  now  and 
then,  or  they  will  think  it  so  strange."  But  even  then  her 
words  were  formal  and  few. 

She  had  meant  to  leave  on  the  third  day,  for  she  yearn- 
ed  to  be  back  with  her  darling;  but  fate  came  between. 
Sir  Austin,  long  an  invalid,  and  almost  a  nonentity  in  the 
family,  passed,  the  night  after  his  daughter's  funeral,  sud- 
denly and  unawares,  into  the  silent  dignity  of  death. 
When  Hannah  came  down  next  morning  it  was  to  find  the 
Moat  House  plunged  once  more  into  that  decent,  decor- 
ous affliction  which  was  all  that  could  be  expected  of  them 
under  the  circumstances. 

They  begged  her  to  stay  a  little  longer,  and  she  staid. 
There  was  a  good  deal  to  be  done,  and  the  ladies  soon 
found  out  how  well  Miss  Thelluson  could  do  it.  Also,  not 
being  a  relative,  she  could  see  the  visitors,  and  retail  to 
the  family  the  wide-spread  sympathy  expressed  for  it  at 
Easterham,  and  for  many  miles  round.  "You  are  such  a 
comfort  to  us,"  they  said ;  and  Bernard,  whom  his  father's 
death  seemed  to  affect  more  deeply  than  Hannah  had  ex- 
pected, said,  in  his  entreating  eyes,  "You  are  such  a  com- 
fort to  me."     So  what  could  she  do  but  stay  ? 

A  few  days  more,  and  the  Rivers  vault  was  again 
opened ;  and  Miss  Thelluson  stood  beside  it,  with  all  the 
Rivers  family  except  the  new  Sir  Austin,  of  whom  nobody 
spoke  except  the  Easterham  lawyer,  who  lamented  confi- 
dentially to  Hannah  that  Mr.  Rivers  should  be  kept  out  of 
his  title,  though  it  could  not  be  for  more  than  a  few  years. 
The  hapless  elder  brother,  whose  mind  grew  weaker  and 


236  HANNAH. 

weaker  every  day,  though  his  body  was  strong  enough, 
might  at  any  time  have  some  fit  that  would  carry  him  off, 
and  prevent  his  being  an  incumbrance  longer. 

"And  then,"  whispered  the  lawyer,  "  Mr.  Rivers  will  be 
Sir  Bernard ;  and  what  a  fine  position  he  will  hold  ! — one 
of  the  finest  in  the  county.  What  a  pity  he  has  no  heir ! 
— only  an  heiress.  But  of  course  he  will  now  marry  im- 
mediately.    Indeed,  he  owes  it  to  his  family." 

Hannah  listened,  as  she  was  now  learning  to  listen^ — ■ 
teaching  her  poor,  mobile,  conscious  face  the  hardness  of 
marble :  her  heart,  too,  if  possible ;  for  these  torments,  so 
far  from  lessening,  would  increase  day  by  day.  How 
should  she  ever  bear  them?  She  sometimes  did  not 
know. 

The  family  had  just  come  out  of  the  study,  where  the 
will  had  been  read,  and  were  settling  down  to  that  strange 
quiet  evening  known  in  most  households,  when,  the  dead 
having  been  taken  away  and  buried  out  of  sight,  the  liv- 
ing, with  an  awful  sense  of  relief  as  well  as  of  loss,  try  to 
return  to  their  old  ways— eat,  drink,  and  talk  as  usual. 
But  it  was  in  vain ;  and  after  a  silent  dinner  Bernard  went 
back  to  the  examination  of  papers  in  the  study.  Thence 
he  presently  sent  a  message  for  help. 

"I  suppose  that  means  Miss  Thelluson,"  said  Bertha, 
with  a  half  laugh,  which  Lady  Rivers  gravely  extin- 
guished. 

"  Go,  my  dear.  I  dare  say  your  brother-in-law  finds 
you  more  useful  to  him  than  any  one  else."  So  Hannah 
went. 

Bernard  was  sitting — his  head  in  his  hands.  It  was  a 
white,  woe-begone  face  that  he  lifted  up  to  Hannah. 

"  Thank  you  for  coming.  I  thought  perhaps  you  might. 
I  wanted  comfort." 

Hannah  said  a  few  commonplace  but  gentle  words. 

"  Oh  no,  it  is  not  that.  I  am  not  sorry  my  poor  old  father 
is  away.  It  was  his  time  to  go.  And  for  me,  there  will 
be  one  less  to  fight  against,  one  less  to  wound." 

He  said  the  latter  words  half  inaudibly — evidently  not 


HANNAH.  237 

meaning  her  to  hear ;  but  she  did,  at  least  some  of  them. 
A  wild,  bitter  answer  came  to  her  lips,  but  this  was  not 
the  time  to  utter  it.  She  merely  replied  by  an  offer  of 
help,  and  sat  down  to  fulfill  it.  He  showed  her  what  to 
do,  and  they  went  on  working  silently  together  for  nearly 
half  an  hour. 

But  the  extremes  of  human  emotion  are  not  so  far  apart 
as  they  seem.  Keen  and  real  as  the  young  man's  grief 
was,  he  was  a  young  man  still,  and  when  the  woman  he 
loved  sat  beside  him,  with  her  sweet,  grave  look,  and  her 
calm,  still  manner,  another  passion  than  grief  began  to  stii 
within  him. 

"  Hannah,"  he  cried,  seizing  her  hand,  "  are  you  happy, 
or  miserable — as  I  am  ?  or,  which  seems  most  likely,  havci 
you  no  feeling  at  all  ?" 

She  looked  up.    It  was  not  a  face  of  stone. 

''  Put  your  work  away — what  does  it  matter  ?  Talk  to 
me,  Hannah.  Think  how  long  it  is  since  you  and  I  have 
had  a  quiet  word  together." 

«  Can  I  help  that?" 

"N"o — nor  I.  We  are  both  of  us  victims  —  tied  and 
bound  victims  in  the  hands  of  fate.  Sometimes  I  thinls 
she  will  get  the  better  of  us,  and  we  shall  both  perish 
miserably." 

"  That  is  a  very  melancholy  view  to  take  of  things,"  said 
Hannah,  half  smiling.     "  Let  us  hope  it  is  not  quite  true." 

"My  bright,  brave-hearted  woman!  If  I  had  you  al 
ways  beside  me,  I  should  not  go  down.  It  is  being  alonv 
that  sinks  a  man  to  despair.     Still,  suspense  is  very  hard.^- 

And  then  he  told  her  what  she  had  not  been  before 
aware  of — that  the  bill  had  safely  passed  the  House  oi 
Commons ;  that  Lord  Dunsmore  and  other  peers,  a  rather 
strong  party,  hoped  even  in  the  House  of  Lords,  whicK 
had  hitherto  always  thrown  it  out,  to  get  this  year  a  suffi- 
cient majority  to  carry  it  through  and  make  it  the  law  ol 
the  land. 

"And  then,  Hannah,  we  can  be  married — married  imme. 
diatelv." 


238  HANNAH. 

He  gasped  rather  than  uttered  the  words.  Passion  re- 
sisted had  conquered  him  with  double  force. 

"But — your  own  people?" 

"They  like  you  now  —  appreciate  you,  even  as  Lady 
Dunsmore  does."  (He  did  not  see,  and  Hannah  had  not 
the  heart  to  suggest,  that  perhaps  it  was  in  consequence 
of  that  appreciation.)  "Besides,  whether  or  not,  they 
must  consent.  They  can  not  go  against  me.  My  father 
has  left  every  thing  in  my  hands.  I  am,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  the  head  of  the  family.  It  is  that  which  makes 
me  so  anxious.  Should  the  bill  not  pass —  But  it  shall 
pass !"  he  cried,  impetuously,  "and  then  no  power  on  earth 
shall  prevent  me  from  marrying  the  woman  I  choose — and 
that  is  you !" 

"  Strange,  strange  !"  murmured  Hannah,  half  to  herself, 
and  dropped  her  conscious  face,  and  felt  more  like  a  girl 
than  she  had  done  for  many  years.  For  she  had  no  duties 
to  think  of;  her  child  was  away,  there  was  only  her  lover 
beside  her.  Her  lover,  wooing  her  with  a  reality  of  love, 
a  persistent  earnestness,  that  no  woman  could  either  ques- 
tion or  mistake. 

"  You  are  not  quite  colorless,  I  see,  my  white  lily.  You 
will  not  always  shrink  back  when  I  want  to  take  you  to 
my  heart?  You  will  creep  in  there  some  day,  and  nake 
it  feel  warm  again,  instead  of  cold  and  empty  and  lonely, 
as  it  is  now.  Hannah,  how  soon,  supposing  the  bill  passes 
this  month — how  soon  will  you  let  me  marry  you  ?" 

They  were  standing  together  by  the  fire,  and  Bernard 
had  just  put  his  arm  round  her.  She  turned  toward  him ; 
she  could  not  help  it;  it  was  so  sweet  to  be  thus  loved. 
Hand  in  hand  and  eye  to  eye  they  stood  for  the  moment, 
yielding  to  present  joy  and  future  hope,  absorbed  in  one 
another,  thinking  of  nothing  beyond  themselves,  seeing 
and  hearing  nothing — when  the  door  opened,  and  Lady 
Rivers  stood  right  in  front  of  them. 

"  Good  Heavens  !"  she  exclaimed,  and  started  back  as  if 
she  had  trod  on  a  snake. 

They  started  back  too — these   guilty-innocent  lovers. 


HANNAH.  239 

Instinctively  they  separated  from  one  another;  and  then 
Bernard  recovered  himself. 

Vexatious  as  the  crisis  was — though  he  looked  as  if  he 
would  have  cut  off  his  hand  rather  than  have  had  it  hap- 
pen— still,  now  that  it  had  happened,  he  was  too  much 
of  a  man  not  to  meet  it,  too  much  of  a  gentleman  not  to 
know  how  to  meet  it  decorously.  He  moved  back  again 
to  Hannah's  side  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Well,  Lady  Rivers,  had  you  any  thing  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"  Well,  Bernard  Rivers,  and  what  have  you  to  say  for 
yourself?  And  what  has  this — this  young  woman — to 
say  for  herself,  I  should  like  to  know  ?" 

"  If  you  mean  Miss  Thelluson,  her  answer  is  as  brief  as 
my  own  must  be.  It  is  now  many  months  since  she  prom- 
ised to  be  my  wife  as  soon  as  our  marriage  can  be  lawful- 
ly carried  out.  In  the  mean  time  we  are  friends — close 
friends ;  and,  as  you  may  have  observed,  we  also  consider 
ourselves  engaged  lovers. — ^Hannah,  do  not  distress  your- 
self; there  is  no  need." 

And  in  the  face  of  his  step-mother  he  put  his  protecting 
arm  round  her — she  was  trembling  violently — and  drew 
her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

There  are  some  people  whom  to  master  you  must  take 
by  storm.  Hold  your  own,  and  they  will  let  you  have  it, 
perhaps  even  respect  you  the  more ;  but  show  the  slight- 
est symptom  of  weakness,  and  they  will  trample  you  into 
the  dust.  Bernard  knew  perfectly  well  with  whom  he  had 
to  deal,  and  took  his  measures  accordingly. 

Lady  Rivers,  utterly  astounded,  less  perhaps  by  the  fact 
itself  than  by  the  cool  way  in  which  Bernard  had  taken  its 
discovery,  simply  stood  and  stared. 

"  I  never  knew  any  thing  so  dreadful ;  never  in  all  my 
life.  Excuse  my  intrusion.  The  only  thing  I  can  do  is  to 
leave  you  immediately." 

She  turned  and  quitted  the  room,  shutting  the  door 
after  her.  Then,  left  alone  with  him,  Hannah  sobbed  out 
her  bitter  humiliation  upon  Bernard's  breast. 

He  comforted  her  as  well  as  he  could,  saying  that  this 


240  HANNAH. 

must  have  happened  some  day ;  perhaps  it  was  as  well  it 
should  happen  now ;  and  that  he  did  not  much  care.  Still 
it  was  evident  he  did  care ;  that  he  was  considerably  an- 
noyed. 

"  Of  course  it  increases  our  perplexities  much ;  for  our 
secret  is  no  longer  our  own.  In  her  wrath  and  indigna- 
tion she  will  blab  it  out  to  the  whole  community,  unless, 
indeed,  family  pride  ties  her  tongue.  But,  anyhow,  we 
can  not  help  ourselves;  we  must  brave  it  out.  Come 
with  me,  Hannah." 

"Where?" 

"  Into  the  next  room,  to  face  them  all  and  tell  the  ex- 
act truth.  Otherwise  we  may  be  overburdened  with  any 
quantity  of  lies.    Come,  my  dear  one.    You  are  not  afraid  ?" 

"  Xo."  She  had  had  all  along  a  vague  doubt  that  when 
it  came  to  the  point  he  would  be  ashamed  of  her  and  of 
his  love  for  her.  To  find  that  he  was  not  gave  Hannah 
such  comfort  that  she  felt  as  if  she  could  have  walked 
barefoot  over  red-hot  plowshares,  like  some  slandered  wom- 
an of  the  Middle  Ages,  if  only  she  might  find  at  the  end  of 
her  terrible  march  Bernard's  face  looking  at  her  as  it  look- 
ed now. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  will  come  with  you  at  once ;  for 
what  is  told  must  be  told  quickly.  I  can  not  stay  another 
night  in  this  house." 

"  You  must,  I  fear,"  answered  Bernard,  gently.  "  Where 
^rould  you  go  to  ?    Not  to  mine  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  no ;  I  can  never  go  to  your  house  any  more." 

And  the  cruel  penalties  of  their  position,  the  chains 
which  bound  them  on  all  sides,  began  to  be  felt  by  both 
in  a  manner  neither  had  ever  felt  before.  To  Hannah  it 
seemed  as  if  she  were  actually  treading  between  those  fiery 
plowshares,  and  she  could  not  have  steadied  her  steps  but 
for  Bernard's  supporting  hand. 

She  held  to  him,  literally  with  the  clinging  grasp  of  a 
child,  as  they  passed  across  the  hall  to  where,  in  the  fine 
old  drawing-room,  like  a  conclave  of  the  Inquisition,  the 
whole  family  were  assembled. 


HANNAH.  241 

Lady  Rivers  had  evidently  been  explaining  what  she 
had  just  heard  and  seen.  Astonishment  was  upon  every 
face,  and  but  for  one  accidental  circumstance — the  presence 
of  Herbert  Melville — there  might  have  been  a  stronger 
feeling  yet.  But  indecorum  being  the  greatest  dread,  and 
prudence  the  principal  characteristic,  of  the  Riverses,  they 
were  obliged  to  restrain  their  wrath  within  the  natural 
limits  of  an  offended  family  which  has  just  discovered  that 
one  of  its  members  has  made  a  matrimonial  engagement 
without  telling  them  any  thing  about  it.  Even  Lady  Riv- 
ers, w^ith  her  widowed  son-in-law  standing  by,  was  forced 
more  than  once  to  pause  and  alter  her  form  of  speech,  di- 
lating more  on  the  wicked  secrecy  with  which  Bernard 
had  planned  his  marriage  than  the  sort  of  marriage  he 
was  about  to  make. 

When  the  two  culprits  walked  in,  looking  agitated 
enough,  but  still  not  exactly  like  culprits,  she  stopped. 

"  Let  them  speak  for  themselves,  if  they  have  the  face 
to  do  it,"  cried  she,  dropping  down  in  her  chair,  exhausted 
with  vituperation.  And  then  his  sisters  rushed  to  Ber- 
nard— some  angry,  some  in  tears — asking  him  how  he 
could  ever  think  of  doing  such  a  dreadful  thing ;  with  his 
father  not  yet  cold  in  his  grave — their  poor,  poor  father, 
who  would  have  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  such  a  mar- 
riage. 

It  was  a  hard  strait  for  a  man  to  be  in.  That  lie  felt  it 
as  acutely  as  so  tender  a  heart  could  possibly  feel  was 
plain.  He  turned  deadly  pale ;  but  still  he  never  let  go 
of  Hannah's  hand.  She — for  a  moment  she  thought  of 
breaking  from  him,  and  flying  out  of  the  house — anywhere 
— to  the  world's  end — that  she  might  save  him  from  her 
and  her  fatal  love.  Then  a  wise  resolution  came — the  de- 
termination, since  he  had  chosen  her,  to  stand  by  him  to 
the  last.  By  her  child,  too,  for  one  implied  both.  Think- 
ing of  little  Rosie,  she  was  strong  again,  for  no  sense  of 
guilt  enfeebled  her;  all  she  was  conscious  of  was  misery — 
pure  misery;  and  that  was  at  least  bearable.  She  sat 
down  in  the  chair  where  Bernard  had  placed  her,  still 

L 


242  HANNAH. 

holding  him  fast  by  the  hand ;  the  only  being  she  had  to 
hold  to  in  the  wide  world  now. 

"  Sisters,"  said  he  at  last,  sj^eaking  very  quietly,  but  as 
firmly  as  he  could,  "what  your  mother  has  just  found  out 
I  intended  to  have  kept  back  from  you  till  the  law  made 
my  marriage  possible.  I  knew  how  you  w^ould  feel  about 
it — as  I  felt  myself  once;  but  people's  minds  change." 

"  So  it  appears,"  said  Lady  Rivers,  with  a  loud  sneer. 
"  Especially  after  living  in  the  same  house  together — for 
months  and  months." 

"  Especially  after  living  in  the  same  house  together,  as 
you  say,"  repeated  Bernard,  deliberately,  though  his  cheek 
flamed  furiously.  "Living  in  a  relation  close  enough  to 
give  us  every  opportunity  of  finding  out  one  another's 
character,  and  of  wishing  the  tie  should  be  made  closer 
still.  I  did  not  love  her  at  first ;  not  for  a  long  time ;  but 
once  loving  her,  I  love  her  forever.  What  I  do,  I  beg  you 
all  to  understand,  is  done  not  hastily,  but  deliberately. 
Long  before  I  ever  said  a  word  otherwise  than  brotherly 
to  Miss  Thelluson,  or  she  had  any  suspicion  of  what  my 
feelings  were,  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  shall  marry  her 
if  I  can,  believing  that,  both  for  my  own  sake  and  my 
child's,  it  is  the  wisest  second  marriage  I  could  make — and 
the  most  natural." 

"  Marry  her  !  after  living  together  as  brother  and  sister 
— or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Morecamb. 
"  Thomas,  dear,  did  you  ever  hear  of  any  thing  so  shock- 
ing— so  improper  ?" 

"  The  law  did  not  hold  it  improper,"  answered  Bernard, 
in  extreme  irritation.  "And,  as  I  tell  you,  at  first  we  had 
no  idea  of  such  a  thing.  It  came  upon  me  unawares. 
The  law  should  not  have  placed  me  in  such  a  position. 
But  it  will  be  broken  soon,  I  trust.  And  until  then  you 
may  all  rest  satisfied  ;  Miss  Thelluson  will  never  again 
enter  my  house  until  she  enters  it  as  my  wife.  Then,  sis- 
ters, whether  you  like  her  or  not,  you  must  pay  her  the  re- 
spect due  to  a  brother's  wife,  or  else  I  am  your  brother  no 
lonofer." 


HANNAH.  243 

He  had  taken  a  high  tone — it  was  wisest ;  but  now  he 
broke  down  a  little.  In  that  familiar  home,  with  the  fa- 
miliar faces  round  him,  two  out  of  them  just  missing,  and 
forever,  it  was  hard  to  go  against  them  all.  And  when — 
the  gentlemen  having  prudently  stepped  out  of  the  room 
— the  women  began  sobbing  and  crying,  lamenting  over 
the  terrible  misfortune  which  had  fallen  on  the  family, 
things  went  very  sore  against  Bernard . 

"And  supposing  the  bill  you  talk  of  does  not  pass,  and 
you  can  not  carry  out  this  most  unnatural,  most  indecent 
marriage,"  said  Lady  Rivers,  "  may  I  ask  what  you  mean 
to  do?  To  go  abroad  and  get  married  there,  as  I  hear 
some  people  do  ?  though  afterward,  of  course,  they  are 
never  received  in  society  again.  Or,  since  ladies  who  can 
do  such  unlady-like  things  must  have  very  easy  consciences, 
perhaps  Miss  Thelluson  will  excuse  your  omitting  the  cere- 
mony altogether." 

Bernard  sprang  up  furious.  "If  you  had  not  been  my 
father's  wife,  and  my  father  only  this  day  buried,  you  and 
I  should  never  have  exchanged  another  word  as  long  as  I 
lived.  As  it  is.  Lady  Rivers,  say  one  word  more  —  one 
word  against  her — and  you  will  find  out  how  a  man  feels 
who  sees  the  woman  he  loves  insulted,  even  by  his  own 
relations.  Sisters  !" — he  turned  to  them,  almost  entreat- 
ingly,  as  if  in  his  natural  flesh  and  blood  he  might  hope  to 
find  some  sympathy — "sisters,  just  hear  me." 

But  they  all  turned  away,  including  Bertha,  whom  poor 
'  Adeline  had  judged  rightly  as  a  mere  coquette,  and  who 
evidently  was  not  at  all  anxious  that  brothers-in-law,  how- 
ever convenient  to  flirt  with,  should  be  allowed  to  marry 
their  deceased  wives'  sisters.  She  stood  aloof,  a  pattern 
of  propriety,  beside  the  rest ;  and  even  made  some  sharp, 
ill-natured  remark  concerning  Hannah,  which  Hannah 
heard,  and  lifted  up  reproachful  eyes  to  the  women  whom 
she  had  been  helping  and  comforting,  and  feeling  aflec- 
tionately  to,  all  the  week,  but  who  now  held  themselves 
apart  from  her,  as  if  she  had  been  the  wickedest  creature 
living. 


244  HANNAH. 

"  You  know  that  is  untrue.  Bertha.  I  was  perfectly  sin- 
cere in  every  word  I  uttered ;  but,  as  Mr.  Rivers  says,  peo- 
ple's feelings  change.  I  did  not  care  for  him  in  the  least 
then — but  I  do  now.  And  if  he  holds  fast  by  me,  I  will 
hold  fast  by  him,  in  spite  of  you  all." 

Slowly,  even  mournfully,  she  said  this ;  less  like  a  con- 
fession of  love  than  a  confession  of  faith — the  troth-plight 
which,  being  a  righteous  one,  no  human  being  has  a  right 
to  break.  They  stood  together — these  two,  terribly  sad  and 
painfully  agitated,  but  still  firm  in  their  united  strength—- 
stood  and  faced  their  enemies. 

For  enemies,  the  bitterest  any  man  can  have — those  of 
his  own  household  —  undoubtedly  Bernard's  sisters  and 
their  mother  now  w^ere.  It  seemed  hardly  credible  that 
this  was  the  same  family  who,  only  a  few  hours  ago,  had 
wept  together  over  the  same  open  grave,  and  comforted 
one  another  in  the  same  house  of  mourning.  'Now  out  of 
that  house  all  solemnity,  all  tenderness  had  departed,  and 
it  became  a  house  full  of  rancor,  heart-burning,  and  strife. 

Long  the  battle  raged,  and  it  was  a  very  sore  one.  A 
family  fight  always  must  be.  The  combatants  know  so 
well  each  other's  weak  points.  They  can  plant  arrows  be- 
tween the  joints  of  the  armor,  and  inflict  wounds  from  be- 
hind ;  wounds  which  take  years  to  heal — if  ever  healed  at 
all.  Hannah  could  hardly  have  believed  that  any  persons 
really  attached  to  one  another,  as  these  were,  could  have 
said  to  one  another  so  many  bitter  things  within  so  short 
a  time ;  such  untrue  things  also,  or  such  startling  traves- 
ties of  truth;  such  alterations  of  facts  and  misinterpreta- 
tions of  motives  that  she  sometimes  stood  aghast  and  won- 
dered if  she  had  not  altogether  deceived  herself  as  to  right 
and  wrong,  and  whether  she  were  not  the  erring  wretch 
they  made  her  out  to  be.  Only  her — not  him ;  they  loved 
him;  evidently  they  looked  upon  him  as  the  innocent  vic- 
tim to  her  arts — the  fly  in  the  spider's  web,  glad  of  any 
generous  kindred  hand  that  would  come  and  tear  it  down, 
and  set  him  free.     Unfortunate  Bernard ! 

He  bore  it  all  for  a  good  while — not,  perhaps,  seeing  the 


HANNAH.  245 

whole  drift  of  their  arguments  —  till  some  chance  speech 
opened  his  eyes.  Then  his  man's  pride  rose  up  at  once. 
He  walked  across  the  hearth,  and  once  more  took  hold  of 
Hannah's  hand. 

"  You  may  say  what  you  like  about  me ;  but  if  you  say 
one  word  against  her  here,  you  shall  repent  it  all  your 
lives.  ISTow  this  must  end.  I  have  heard  all  you  have  to 
say,  and  answered  it.  Sisters,  look  here.  You  may  talk 
as  much  as  you  like,  seeing  you  are  my  sisters,  for  ten 
minutes  more  " — and  he  laid  his  watch  on  the  table,  with 
that  curious  mixture  of  authority  and  good-humor  which 
used  to  make  them  say  Bernard  could  do  any  thing  with 
any  body.  "After  that  you  must  stop.  Every  man's  pa- 
tience has  its  limits.  I  am  the  head  of  the  house,  and  can 
marry  whomsoever  I  choose ;  and  I  choose  to  marry  Miss 
Thelluson,  if  I  have  to  wait  years  and  years.  So,  girls,  you 
may  as  well  make  up  your  minds  to  it.  Otherwise,  when 
she  is  Lady  Rivers — as  one  day  she  may  be — you  would 
find  it  a  little  awkward." 

He  half  smiled  as  he  spoke ;  perhaps  he  knew  them  well 
enough  to  feel  sure  that  the  practical  rather  than  the  sen- 
timental side  was  the  safest  to  take  them  on;  perhaps, 
also,  he  felt  that  a  smile  was  better  than  a  furious  word 
or  a  tear — and  both  were  not  far  off,  for  his  heart  was  ten- 
der as  well  as  wroth ;  but  the  pla'n  answered. 

Lady  Rivers  gave  the  signal  to  retire.  "  For  this  night, 
Miss  Thelluson,  I  suppose  you  will  be  glad  to  accept  the 
shelter  of  our  roof;  but  perhaps  you  may  find  it  not  in- 
convenient to  leave  us  to-morrow.  Until  that  desirable 
event,  w^hich  Bernard  seems  so  sure  of,  does  take  place, 
you  will  see  at  once  that,  with  my  unmarried  daughters 
still  under  my  charge — " 

"  It  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  keep  up  any  acquaint- 
ance with  me,"  continued  Hannah,  calmly.  "  I  quite  un- 
derstand. This  good-night  will  be  a  permanent  good-by 
to  you  all." 

Lady  Rivers  bowed.  But  she  was  a  prudent  woman. 
It  was  a  perfectly  polite  bow — as  of  a  lady  who  was  act- 


246  HANNAH. 

ing  not  so  much  of  her  own  volition  as  from  the  painful 
pressure  of  circumstances. 

Hannah  rose,  and  tried  to  stand  without  shaking.  Her 
heart  was  very  full.  The  sense  of  shame  or  disgrace  was 
not  there — how  could  it  be,  with  her  conscience  clear,  and 
Bernard  beside  her  ? — but  bitter  regret  was.  She  had  been 
with  his  people  so  much  of  late  that  sorrow  had  drawn 
them  closer  to  her  than  she  had  ever  believed  possible. 
Likewise  they  were  his  people,  and  she  still  tried  to  be- 
lieve in  the  proverb  that "  blood  is  thicker  than  water." 

"  I  have  done  you  no  harm — not  one  of  you,"  she  said, 
almost  appealingly.  "Nor  your  brother  either.  I  only 
loved  him.  If  we  are  ever  married,  I  shall  devote  my  life 
to  him ;  if  not,  it  is  I  that  shall  suffer.  In  any  case,  my 
life  is  sad  enough.  Do  not  be  hard  upon  me,  you  that  are 
all  so  happy." 

And  she  half  extended  her  hand. 

But  no  one  took  it.  Neither  mother  nor  sisters  gave 
one  kind  word  to  this  motherless,  sisterless  woman,  whom 
they  knew  perfectly  well  had  done  nothing  wrong — only 
something  foolish.  But  the  'foolishness  of  this  world  is 
sometimes  higher  than  its  wisdom. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Bernard ;  "  good-night,  my  dearest. 
You  will  find  me  waiting  at  the  railway  at  eight  o'clock  to- 
morrow morning  to  take  you  direct  to  Lady  Dunsmore's." 

With  a  chivalric  tenderness  worthy  of  his  old  crusading 
ancestors — those  good  knights,  pledged  to  Heaven  to  suc- 
cor the  distressed — he  took  Hannah  by  the  rejected  hand, 
kissed  it  before  them  all,  led  her  to  the  door,  and,  closing 
it  upon  her,  went  back  to  his  mother  and  sisters. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


It  was  the  dreariest  of  wet  March  mornings,  more  like 
winter  than  spring — when  they  met  at  the  station — those 
two,  whom,  if  all  the  eyes  of  Easterham  had  been  on  them, 
no  one  would  ever  have  taken  for  lovers,  so  grave,  so  sad, 


HANNAH.  247 

SO  silent  were  they.  The  only  attention  Bernard  paid  to 
her  was  the  common  courtesy  of  any  gentleman  to  a  lady 
— any  kind-hearted  man  to  a  suffering  woman.  For  that 
Hannah  did  suffer,  was  plain.  To  rise  in  the  dull  dawn 
of  the  morning,  to  breakfast  alone,  and  steal  away,  unno- 
ticed and  uncared-for  by  any  member  of  the  family,  was 
outward  humiliation  enough:  but  it  was  nothing  to  the 
inward  pain.  No  wonder  that  her  eyes  were  heavy  and 
sleepless,  her  face  deadly  white,  and  that  even  the  village 
doctor,  whom  they  met  on  the  platform,  noticed  how  very 
ill  Miss  Thelluson  was  looking. 

"  Yes,  she  was  my  sister's  constant  nurse,  and  has  been 
helping  us  here  through  all  our  trouble,"  said  Bernard, 
hastily.  "  She  is  very  much  worn  out ;  and  I  am  glad  to 
be  taking  her  back  at  once  to  her  friend  Lady  Dunsmore." 

Hannah  recognized  the  prudence,  and  was  grateful. 
Yet  still,  that  there  should  be  this  vital  need  for  pru- 
dence, for  circumspection,  for  worldly  wisdom,  was  itself 
a  kind  of  mute  disgrace. 

The  doctor  traveled  up  with  them  to  London ;  so  they 
had  not  one  word  together — Bernard  and  she — till  they 
found  themselves  alone  in  the  cab.  Then  he  seized  her 
hand. 

"We  have  but  five  minutes,  my  love.  Always  my 
love  !     Remember  that ;  and  for  my  sake  forgive  all." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  Thinking  as  they  do,  they 
could  scarcely  act  otherwise  than  as  they  do.  But,  oh,  it 
is  hard.  I  was  growing  so  fond  of  Easterham — of  them 
too.  And  now  I  shall  never  see  the  Moat  House  or  them 
again." 

"Do  not  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  Bernard,  passionate- 
ly. "  You  may  be  back  again  ere  many  weeks.  Back — 
in  a  character  in  which  they  must  receive  you." 

And  then  he  explained  how  he  had  seen  in  the  day's 
newspapers  that  the  bill  was  to  be  brought  up  to  the 
House  of  Lords  for  the  second  reading  that  very  night. 

"The  critical  night.  Lord  Dunsmore  has  been  expect- 
ing it  for  long.     There  will  be  a  debate  ;  still,  I  know,  he 


248  HANNAH. 

hoped  for  a  majority — small,  indeed,  but  enough  to  carry 
it  through — enough  to  save  us.  Oh,  Hannah,  if  it  were 
right  to  pray  for  such  a  thing — such  a  common  secular 
thing  as  a  few  votes  more  or  less  in  Parliament — ^I,  a 
clergyman  too." 

He  laughed;  hut  his  eye  glittered  with  excitement. 
Hannah  was  almost  frightened  when  she  looked  at  him. 

"I  am  glad  the  suspense  will  be  ended  to-night,"  he 
continued.  "  You  see,  the  trial  is  harder  for  me  than  for 
most  —  though,  I  believe,  by  Lord  Dunsmore's  account, 
that  there  are  hundreds  of  men  in  England  in  my  position 
— waiting  till  the  bill  shall  pass.  But  then  I  am  a  '  city 
set  on  a  hill' — like  my  house,  as  you  used  to  say  to  me. 
A  clergyman,  contemplating  an  act  which  is  directly  con- 
trary to  the  canon  law,  and  in  which  my  very  bishop,  I 
understand,  is  dead  against  me.  I  shall  be  excommunica- 
ted, of  course — ^that  is,  suspended — except,  by-the-bye,  if 
my  marriage  ever  takes  place,  it  will  be  according  to  law ; 
and,  then,  whatever  he  thinks,  the  bishop  can  not  suspend 
me.  Oh,  we  care  quite  as  much  for  the  law  as  the  gospel, 
we  clergymen !" 

And  he  laughed  again,  and  still  continued  rapidly  talk- 
ing in  a  way  very  unusual  with  him.  Evidently  the  trial 
was  becoming  past  his  endurance;  and  now  that  there 
was  added  the  home-warfare — to  which  he  never  referred 
— things  would  be  worse  still.  Suffering,  they  say,  often 
changes  a  woman  into  an  angel ;  but  it  is  not  so  with  men 
— generally  quite  the  contrary.  Hannah  was  so  grieved 
that  she  hardly  answered  a  word  till  they  reached  their 
destination. 

"  Stop  a  minute !"  Bernard  said.  "  I  had  meant  to 
leave  you  here — and  go — " 

"Where?" 

"  Any  where ;  it  does  Jiot  matter.  But  I  can  not  do  it. 
Oh,  Hannah,  keep  me  beside  you  !  I  am  good  then.  Could 
you  not  invent  some  nice  little  falsehood  for  my  staying?" 

"  Does  it  need  a  falsehood  to  excuse  a  father's  coming 
to  see  his  own  child  ?"  said  Hannah,  gravely. 


HANNAH.  249 

"The  child — always  the  child!"  he  cried.  "You  care 
for  nobody  else.  I  do  believe  you  are  marrying  me — if 
ever  we  are  married — solely  for  the  sake  of  the  child." 

Hannah  paused  a  minute  before  she  answered.  His 
conversation  was  not  exactly  true,  yet  there  was  some 
truth  in  it ;  and  to  deny  truth  is  always  dangerous.  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his  very  tenderly — the  tenderness  of  a 
love  so  baptized  in  sorrow  that  almost  all  earthly  passion 
had  been  washed  out  of  it. 

"  Bernard,  if  what  you  say  were  true — I  do  not  allow 
that  it  is — but  if  it  were,  would  it  be  a  wicked  thing? 
Would  Rosie's  mother,  or  need  Rosie's  father,  be  angry 
with  me  for  it  ?" 

"  No,  no  !"  And  for  the  hundredth  time,  looking  at  the 
saintly  patience  of  her  face — a  face  in  which,  besides  love, 
were  written  grief,  and  loss,  and  resignation — he  learned 
patience  too. 

Lady  Dunsmore  had  gone  out,  and  might  not  be  home 
till  dinner-time ;  but  had  left  a  note  for  Miss  Thelluson, 
in  case  she  returned  to-day,  which  the  countess  seemed  to 
have  expected. 

"Why?    Does  she  guess  any  thing,  do  you  suppose?" 

"Every  thing,  I  believe,"  said  Hannah.  "But  she  has 
never  breathed  one  syllable  to  me,  and  nev^er  will." 

"  Good,  w^se,  generous  woman !  We  must  tell  her  all 
to-morrow." 

But  Hannah  only  sighed.  She  had  little  faith  in  "  to- 
morrow." People  whose  lives  have  been  very  sunless 
gradually  cease  to  believe  in  the  sun. 

It  was  a  long,  long  day.  They  could  hardly  have  got 
through  it  but  for  the  child,  who  with  her  little  imperative 
queenliness  put  aside  both  past  and  future,  and  compelled 
them  to  live  in  the  present.  Desperately  in  love  as  he 
was,  Mr.  Rivers  had  a  father's  heart,  and  the  mother-heart 
in  Hannah  kept  it  alive.  Also,  after  the  domestic  storms 
of  the  Moat  House,  there  was  something  in  the  innocent 
peace  of  the  baby-life — so  absorbed  in  little  things — which 
soothed  them  both.    Men  might  have  laughed,  but  angels 

L2 


250  HANNAH. 

would  have  smiled  to  see  these  two  forlorn  lovers,  who 
dared  not  show  their  love,  to  whom  one  another's  presence 
was  always  a  painful  restraint — often  an  actual  dread — 
comforting  one  another  a  little  in  their  mutual  love  of  the 
child. 

Lady  Dunsraore  smiled  too  when  she  saw  them  building 
houses  of  cards  for  Rosie  on  the  nursery  floor,  and  then 
blowing  them  down  with  the  solemnest  of  faces ;  but  after 
the  smile  she  turned  away  with  a  tear.  She  had  a  heart 
— this  brilliant  little  woman  of  the  world. 

Kissing  Hannah,  she  said  a  few  words  of  gentle  condo- 
lence to  Mr.  Rivers. 

"  I  did  not  wonder  that  Miss  Thelluson  was  kept  at  the 
Moat  House,  she  is  such  a  help  to  every  body  in  trouble ; 
but  I  am  glad  you  have  brought  her  back  now,  and  glad 
you  have  come  to  see  your  little  girl.  She  would  have 
forgotten  papa  soon.  You  will  stay  and  dine  ?  We  have 
no  guests,  for  Lord  Dunsmore  will  be  at  the  House.  He 
speaks  to-night,  if  the  Marriage  Bill  comes  on  for  the  sec- 
ond reading,  as  we  expect  it  will." 

Bernard  made  some  brief  assent. 

"  See  what  it  is  to  be  a  politician's  wife,"  said  the  count- 
ess, turning  to  Hannah.  "All  this  forenoon  I  have  been 
acting  as  amateur  whipper-in  to  get  votes  for  our  side. 
Lord  Dunsmore  is  desperately  anxious  about  it,  but  very 
hopeful  of  the  result.  He  will  come  straight  home  with 
the  news;  so  I  shall  be  most  grateful  of  your  company, 
Mr.  Rivers,  to  congratulate  my  husband  if  he  wins  —  to 
condole  if  he  fails.  But  as  I  said  to  my  thane  this  morn- 
ing, when  I  counseled  him  to  go  and  murder,  not  King 
Law,  but  the  tyrant  Injustice — 

"  *  Screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking-place, 
And  we'll  not  fail.' " 

She  put  the  matter  thus,  with  her  consummate  tact  and 
delicate  kindliness^  chattsring  gayly  on,  and  not  waiting 
for  any  bodjT-  to  answer.  And  all  day  she  kept  them  up 
with  her  gay,  witty,  continuous  talk — a  perpetual  fountain 


HANNAH.  251 

of  prettiness — never  by  word  or  look  betraying  that  she 
guessed  any  thing,  that  any  body  had  any  anxiety  except 
herself,  for  the  result  which  this  day  must  bring. 

At  dinner  they  were  only  three ;  but  in  the  evening  one 
or  two  people  dropped  in.  Lord  Dunsmore's  house  was 
always  a  sort  of  rendezvous  to  discuss  what  was  going  on 
in  the  House,  especially  when  there  was  pending  such  a 
question  as  this,  in  which  he  was  known  to  be  strongly 
interested.  His  wife,  too — her  enemies  called  her  a  female 
politician ;  but  even  they  acknowledged  that  she  pursued 
her  unfeminine  metier  in  a  most  womanly  way,  and  that  it 
was  chiefly  for  her  lord's  sake,  in  whose  projects  she  joined 
heart  and  soul. 

"  No,"  she  said,  when  all  the  comers  and  goers  had  left, 
and  she  sat  waiting  for  Lord  Dunsmore's  return,  trying  in 
every  way  to  make  the  time  slip  by  for  those  other  two, 
to  whom  she  talked  fast,  but  scarcely  looked  at  them — 
"  no ;  I  hate  the  word  party ;  I  despise  heartily  those  poll- 
ticians  who  dare  not  think  for  themselves,  but  must  vote 
as  their  leader  bids  them,  just  as  much  as  I  despise  those 
feeble  legislators  who,  as  in  this  case,  are  afraid  to  do  good 
lest  evil  might  come — to  break  a  bad  law,  lest  good  laws 
might  some  day  be  broken.  If  I  were  a  man,  the  only 
question  I  should  ever  ask  myself  would  be — Is  this  right 
or  wrong  ?    That  once  clear,  I  would  risk  the  rest." 

"  Would  you,"  cried  Bernard,  leaning  forward,  strongly 
excited.  He  had  looked  very  ill  all  day — indeed  he  had 
owned  to  Hannah  that  he  was  not  well,  and  that  before 
he  went  home  he  meant  to  consult  a  doctor;  but  he  had 
the  true  masculine  dislike  to  be  pitied  and  sympathized 
with  in  his  ailments,  so  she  asked  no  more ;  only  she 
watched  him  —  his  changing  cheek,  his  nervous  start  at 
every  opening  of  the  door,  with  an  anxiety  she  could  not 
control. 

And,  as  during  a  pause  in  his  conversation  with  Lady 
Dunsmore  he  turned  and  asked  Hannah  rather  irritably 
"  why  she  was  so  silent  ?"  he  little  knew  what  a  desperate 
resolve  was  forming  in  her  mind,  should  certain  combina- 


252  HANNAH. 

tions  of  circumstances  force  her  to  it — drive  her  into  the 
carrying  out  of  that  principle,  "All  for  love,  and  the  world 
well  lost."  A  resolve  which  no  one  would  have  expected 
possible  for  such  a  quiet  woman  as  she. 

Ten  o'clock  struck — eleven  ;  it  was  near  midnight. 

"  They  are  having  a  long  debate ;  that  looks  well  for 
our  cause,"  said  Lady  Dunsmore ;  and  then  a  carriage  was 
heard  to  drive  up,  and  Lord  Dunsmore's  foot — he  was  a 
large,  heavy,  ponderous  man,  not  easily  moved,  physically 
or  mentally,  but  firm  as  a  rock  after  he  did  move — was 
distinctly  audible  coming  up  stairs. 

His  little  bright  wife  flew  to  him.  ^*  Oh,  tell  us — I  mean, 
tell  me — in  two  words — " 

But  he  had  caught  sight  of  the  other  two,  and  looked 
for  the  moment  as  if  he  wished  himself  miles  and  miles 
away.  Still  he  went  up  and  shook  hands  with  them  with 
a  noble  affectation  of  carelessness. 

"  Pardon.  Lady  Dunsmore  is  so  anxious  about  me  and 
my  affairs.  Well,  my  dear,  there  is,  unluckily,  no  news. 
We  have  failed  this  time — beaten ;  but  by  the  smallest 
majority  yet.  Hope  on,  hope  ever!  Next  session  we 
shall  have  converted  those  heretics,  and  be  sure  to  get  our 
bill  through.  If  we  fight  on  steadily  we  shall  carry  our 
point  at  last." 

"  Of  course  we  shall,"  cried  the  countess,  with  a  choke 
in  her  throat.  "  No  need  to  be  down-hearted.  The  right 
always  wins.     Cheer  up,  Dunsmore  !" 

And  she  patted  him  on  the  shoulder,  never  once  turning 
her  eyes — they  glittered  with  tears,  in  spite  of  her  gay 
tone — to  the  two  behind  her. 

Hannah  stood  motionless.  She  had  expected  nothing, 
and  was  scarcely  disappointed ;  but  Bernard  stepped  for- 
ward excitedly. 

"Yes,  yes,  the  right  always  wins.  And  you  made  a 
brilliant  speech.  Lord  Dunsmore.     I — I — con — grat — " 

An  uncomfortable  sound  rose  in  his  throat,  as  if  he  were 
struggling  to  articulate  and  could  not.  Then  he  dropped 
down,  and  there  was  the  piteous  sight  of  a  strong  man 


HANJtTAH.  253 

swooning  dead  away.  Hannah,  as  she  fell  on  her  knees 
beside  him,  and  lifted  his  head,  thought  for  the  instant  it 
was  real  death. 

"  It  has  killed  him,"  she  said,  piteously.  "Pie  could  not 
bear  it  —  the  suspense,  I  mean ;  and  now —  You  under- 
stand ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  understood  it  all  along,"  said  Lady  Duns- 
more,  gently,  and  bade  her  husband  lock  the  door,  so  as 
to  prevent  any  one  entering  for  a  minute  or  two.  "We 
will  see  after  him  ourselves.  Look,  he  is  reviving  a  little 
already !" 

Bernard  sighed.  "Oh,  Hannah!"  he  murmured,  and 
stretched  out  his  arms.  She  opened  hers,  and  took  him 
into  them,  resting  his  head  against  her  shoulder,  so  that 
he  could  breathe  freer,  then  looked  up  to  her  two  friends. 

"  You  see  how  it  is  ?  We  could  not  help  it.  And  you 
do  not  think  us  wrong,  I  know." 

"  Wrong  !  Quite  the  contrary.  And  I  always  knew  it 
would  happen.     Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?" 

That  one  little  triumph — "  I  told  you  so  !"  The  count- 
ess could  not  resist  it ;  but  after  that  she  said  no  more — 
only  helped  Hannah,  in  the  kindest  and  tenderest  way, 
to  restore  the  still  half-conscious  man.  Bernard's  illness, 
however,  seemed  rather  more  than  an  ordinary  fainting-fit. 
When  he  recovered  he  wandered  in  his  talk,  and  scarcely 
seemed  to  know  where  he  was. 

Then  Hannah  took  at  once  the  motherly  part  which 
seems  natural  to  almost  all  women  in  case  of  sickness — 
soothing  him,  tending  him,  and  accepting  for  him  all  the 
arrangements  which  Lady  Dunsmore  immediately  made, 
that  he  should  remain  in  the  house.  Soon  he  was  able  to 
be  half  led,  half  carried,  to  his  room. 

"  Is  it  all  right,  Hannah?  You  will  see  that  it  is  all  right  ?" 
said  he,  helplessly;  and  when  she  answered  him  in  her  quiet- 
ing voice,  he  seemed  satisfied  and  submitted  patiently. 

But  she  had  to  submit  to  harder  things.  When,  hearing 
him  call  her,  she  mechanically  rose  to  follow  him,  Lady 
Dunsmore  detained  her. 


254  HANNAH. 

"Not  you;  my  old  housekeeper  must  be  his  nurse. 
Not  you." 

"  But  he  wants  me.     He  called  me." 

"  Never  mind.  You  can  not  go.  What  would  the  world 
say?" 

Hamiah  blushed  horribly,  then  answered,  in  a  low,  des- 
perate voice,  "  I  care  nothing  for  the  world.  He  is  mine. 
You  forget  we  are  engaged;  we  were  to  have  been  mar- 
ried as  soon  as  ever  the  law  allowed.  Nobody  under- 
stands him  as  I  do.     Let  me  go." 

"  No,"  said  her  friend,  firmly.  "  He  will  be  taken  every 
care  of;  but  your  care  he  can  not  have.  For  both  your 
sakes,  I  will  not  allow  it ;  the  world  is  too  wicked.  And 
yet,"  she  added,  "  the  world  has  common  sense  on  its  side. 
No  man  or  woman,  not  related,  ought  to  have  been  to  one 
another  what  you  and  he  have  been,  unless  they  could  be 
married.  You  must  accept  things  as  they  are.  I  am  not 
cruel  to  you,  but  kind." 

Hannah  knew  that.  "With  a  stolid  patience  she  did  ac- 
cept her  lot,  submitting  day  after  day,  for  a  whole  week, 
to  the  miserable  suspense  of  only  hearing  second-hand 
tidings  of  Bernard's  state,  of  having  rights  and  no  rights, 
of  being  neither  wife  nor  sister,  yet  having  to  endure  the 
agonizing  anxiety  of  both.  Not  alone,  either,  in  her  pain 
— for  Bernard  continually  sent  messages  for  her  to  come 
to  him,  and  Lady  Dunsmore  would  not  let  her  go. 

"  Csesar's  wife,"  she  said,  "  must  not  even  be  suspected. 
You  are  under  my  protection,  and  I  will  protect  you  to 
the  utmost  of  my  power;  but  you  must  also  protect  your- 
self. You  must  give  no  handle  to  the  bitter  tongues 
which  are  already  beginning  to  wag  about  you." 

What  tongues,  she  did  not  state ;  but  Hannah  knew. 
By  the  manner  in  which  she  had  often  heard  other  peo- 
ple talked  of  at  the  Moat  House,  she  guessed  well  enough 
how  the  Moat  House  would  now  be  talking  of  her.  And 
the  plan  which,  in  the  wretchedness  of  being  parted  from 
him,  she  had  already  matured,  and  intended  to  propose  to 
Bernard  as  soon  as  he  got  well — namely,  that,  adhering  to 


IIAXNAH.  255 

the  letter  of  the  law,  and  risking  all  misinterpretation,  she 
should  go  back  with  him  to  Easterham,  and  resume  her 
place  as  his  sister  and  housekeeper — faded  into  thin  air. 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  countess,  when  they  dis- 
cussed, as  they  did  openly  now,  the  actual  position  of 
things,  and  what  was  the  best  course  to  take  next.  "  Such 
a  scheme  would  never  do.  The  world  would  never  be- 
lieve in  you  or  him.  I  can  quite  understand  a  woman, 
conscious  of  her  own  innocence,  doing  the  most  daring 
things ;  but  there  are  things  which  she  has  no  right  to 
dare.  No,  my  poor  Hannah,  if  ever  you  are  married,  you 
must  bring  to  your  husband  a  spotless  name ;  not  a  soul 
must  be  able  to  throw  a  stone  at  you.  And  there  are 
those  who  would  stone  you  to  death  if  they  could." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Hannah,  sadly  ;  "  but  perhaps  they 
do  not  mean  it.     Don't  tell  him;  he  loves  them." 

So  spoke  she,  and  tried  to  believe  the  best — that  cir- 
cumstances were  chiefly  in  fault,  not  individuals.  But 
Lady  Dunsmore  was  very  angry,  especially  when,  the  ill- 
tidings  about  Bernard  being  necessarily  sent  to  Easter- 
ham, Bertha  and  Mrs.  Morecamb  rushed  up  and  bemoaned 
him,  and  exacted  a  promise  from  him  that  he  would  come 
home  directly,  and  let  himself  be  nursed  at  the  Moat  House 
by  his  own  people.  That  day  he  did  not  ask  for  Hannah 
— not  once. 

She  sat  in  her  room,  and  saw  nothing  of  him — saw  al- 
most nobody  except  the  child.  She  was  painfully  aware 
that  every  person  in  the  house,  servants  included,  guessed 
her  exact  position  with  regard  to  Mr.  Kivers,  and  watched 
her  with  the  eager  curiosity  with  which  almost  all  people, 
good  and  bad  alike,  follow  a  domestic  tragedy  of  this  sort 
— a  something  which  can  not  be  talked  of  openly,  which 
has  all  the  delightfulness  of  sin  without  its  dangerous 
elements. 

Thus,  when  Mr.  Rivers  at  last  came  down  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, Celestine,  the  countess's  maid,  ran  into  Miss  Thel- 
luson's  room,  with  the  substance  of  half  a  dozen  French 
novels  written  in  her  face,  to  communicate  the  event ;  as- 


253  HANNAH. 

suring  mademoiselle  that  monsieur  was  looking  so  much 
better  than  any  body  expected,  and  she  had  heard  him 
asking  for  her ;  and  should  she  arrange  mademoiselle's  toi- 
let to  the  best  advantage  before  she  went  down  stairs  ? 

But,  when  really  summoned,  Hannah  crept  rather  than 
walked  to  her  lover's  presence.  There  was  no  joy,  no  ea- 
gerness in  her  face — only  a  kind  of  dreamy  thankfulness 
— until  they  were  alone  together,  and  then  he  called  her 
to  his  side. 

"  Hannah,  it  was  not  of  your  own  will  that  you  forsook 
me?" 

"Ko,no!" 

"And  you  love  me  still  ?  You  will  not  give  me  up  even 
after  what  has  befallen  us  ?  You  understand  ?  For  an- 
other year,  at  least,  there  is  no  hope  of  our  being  married." 

"No." 

"  Isn't  it  sad  and  strange — sad  and  strange,"  he  contin- 
ued, wistfully,  as  he  lay  on  the  sofa,  she  holding  his  hand, 
for  he  was  very  feeble  still.  "  Here  are  we  two,  with  every 
blessing  under  heaven — youth,  health,  freedom,  money — 
nothing  in  the  world  to  prevent  our  being  happy ;  and  yet 
happy  we  can  not  be.     I  see  no  way  out  of  it.    Do  you  ?" 

For  a  minute  he  looked  as  if  he  thought  she  might ;  but 
she  shook  her  head,  and  kept  her  eyes  down  on  the  ground. 

"  Then  the  question  is,  what  are  we  to  do  ?  I  must  go 
home  directly,  but  it  must  be  without  you.  Lady  Duns- 
more  tells  me  so,  and  I  think  she  is  right." 

"  I  think  so  too." 

"And  parting  from  you,  I  must  also  part  from  my  child. 
You  know  I  promised  you  I  would  never  claim  the  child, 
and  I  shall  keep  my  word,  though  I  shall  miss  her  sorely. 
Pretty  little  Rosie  I     Still,  I  will  give  her  up — to  you." 

"Thank  you." 

And  then,  looking  at  him,  the  thanks  seemed  cruel — he 
was  so  worn,  so  weak,  so  joyless ;  and  it  was  such  a  joy- 
less, empty  life  that  he  was  going  back  to.  He  was  so 
helpless,  too — the  kind  of  man  who  always  wants  a  wom- 
an to  take  care  of  him — to  whom  marriaore  is,  domestical- 


HANNAH.  257 

ly,  not  merely  a  comfort  but  a  necessity ;  and  all  his  little 
weaknesses  she  knew — all  his  innocent  wants  she  was  ac- 
customed to  supply. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I  have  missed  you !"  said  he, 
with  an  almost  child-like  complaining.  "Home  has  not 
been  like  home  since  you  went  away.  There  was  nobody 
to  do  any  thing  for  me,  or,  when  they  did  it,  they  did  it 
wrong.  Nobody  like  Hannah.  When  shall  I  have  you 
back  again  ?" 

"When,  indeed?" 

"And  now,  when  I  was  ill  —  when,  once  or  twice,  I 
thought  I  was  dying,  and  could  not  get  at  you — it  was 
so  hard.  Will  you  promise" — ^lie  lifted  himself  np  and 
clutched  her  hand  tight — "promise  faithfully  that,  if  I  am 
really  dying,  you  will  come  to  me,  whatever  the  world  says?" 

"  I  will ;"  and  he  saw  by  her  face  that  she  would.  "  But 
you  must  not  die,"  she  added,  desperately ;  "  you  must  get 
well  as  fast  as  ever  you  can.  You  must  take  the  utmost 
possible  care  of  yourself,  for  Rosie's  sake — and  mine.  Oh, 
Bernard!  once  I  told  you  to  part  from  me  and  go  and 
marry  another  woman ;  but  I  could  not  do  it  now." 

He  smiled,  and  tried  to  draw  her  closer  to  him;  but  she 
glanced  at  the  door  and  shrank  away. 

"  You  don't  care  for  me — you  are  afraid  of  caring  for 
me,"  Bernard  said,  angrily. 

"  I !  not  care  for  you  !" 

She  wept ;  and,  overcome  by  the  weakness  of  illness,  he 
wept  too.  It  was  cruelly  hard  for  them  both — as  hard  as 
that  most  pathetic  line  in  the  ballad — 

"We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  we  tore  ourselves  away." 

But  that  "  ae  kiss  "  of  theirs  had  no  sin  in  it — nothing  but 
sorrow. 

"  Hannah,"  implored  he,  "  do  not  forsake  me  again.  If 
you  knew  what  a  lost  creature  I  am  without  you — to  die 
without  you,  or  to  live  without  you,  is  equally  dreadful. 
Can  nothing  be  done  ?  Oh,  my  dearest !  can  nothing  be 
done?" 


258  HANNAH. 

His  eyes  were  so  sad,  his  looks  so  wan.  Even  this  com- 
paratively trifling  illness,  following  the  long  mental  strain 
which  he  must  have  undergone,  had  broken  him  down  so 
completely  that  Hannah  was  terrified.  There  came  upon 
her  that  mortal  dread,  which  comes  upon  all  who  love,  and 
was  most  natural  in  her,  who  had  lived  to  see  the  grave 
close  over  all  her  nearest  and  dearest.  What  if,  among 
all  their  cares,  the  one  care  they  never  contemplated  were 
to  happen  ?  What  if  Bernard  were  to  fall  into  ill  health, 
to  sicken  and  die,  and  she  still  parted  from  him  ?  What 
if,  instead  of  the  long,  lonely  years  which  both  had  feared 
so  much,  there  should  be  allotted  to  one  of  them  only  a 
brief  space  of  earthly  life,  was  that  space  to  be  spent  in 
separation  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  clutch  at  the  van- 
ishing joy — to  risk  all  things,  and  gain  one  another  ? 

Under  the  agony  of  this  fear,  Hannah  was  near  giving 
way,  and,  whispering  a  word  or  two — offering  that  fatal 
sacrifice  which,  however  he  needs  it  and  craves  it,  no  wom- 
an has  a  right  to  make  to  any  man,  not  even  though  it 
may  be  one  which,  as  in  this  case,  involves  no  moral  guilt, 
and  concerning  which  her  own  conscience  may  be  at  ease 
entirely.  For  the  sacrifice  is  not  hers  alone.  He  too  is 
involved  in  it.  Nor  he  only;  but  the  solemn  rights  of 
creatures  yet  unborn — innocent  beings  who  can  not  plead 
and  say,  "  Father,  mother,  why  did  you  do  this  ?  why  en- 
tail this  misery  upon  us  also  ?" 

Whether,  noble  and  pure  woman  as  she  was,  the  moth- 
erly heart  in  Hannah  made  her  faintly  hear  those  voices, 
with  a  solemn  prevision  that  no  woman  ought  ever  to  blush 
for  or  to  set  aside — who  knows  ? — but  she  hesitated.  She 
could  not  be  the  first  to  propose  that  marriage  abroad 
which  secured  nothing  at  home.  Besides,  so  long  as  the 
law  was  the  law,  it  ought  not  to  be  broken. 

While  she  hesitated,  Bernard,  who  had  lain  silent  and 
thoughtful,  said  suddenly,  in  a  rather  changed  tone — the 
"worldly"  tone  which  she  had  sometimes  remarked  in 
him,  the  faint  reflex  of  what  was  so  strong  in  the  rest  of 
his  family : 


HANNAH.  259 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  my  going  back  to  my  parish  work 
alone  will  be  the  most  prudent  course;  for  I  may  soon 
have  to  make  some  change  in  it,  and  indeed  in  all  my 
outward  surroundings.  The  girls  told  me  that  poor  Aus- 
tin has  had  another  series  of  fits,  worse  than  ever  before. 
Most  likely  I  shall  be  Sir  Bernard  before  very  long." 

He  sighed — but  it  was  not  a  heart-deep  sigh ;  one  could 
not  expect  it  to  be ;  and  there  was  something  in  his  look 
which  corresponded  to  that  tone  which  always  jarred  upon 
Hannah.  No,  "All  for  love,  and  the  world  well  lost,"  was 
not  the  creed  of  any  Rivers ;  if  Bernard  tried  it,  the  loss 
would  not  be  by  him  quite  unfelt.  Would  it  by  any  man 
brought  up  as  he  had  been,  and  with  the  nobler  half  of 
him  never  developed  at  all  till  he  fell  in  love  with  poor 
Rosa — till  he  afterward  walked  into  love,  deeply,  deliber- 
ately, with  such  a  woman  as  Hannah  Thelluson  ? 

Hannah  left  her  passionate  words  unsaid,  and  continued 
their  grave  and  anxious  talk — listening  to  all  the  plans  he 
made  for  her  and  Rosie,  in  which  he  showed  the  utmost 
thoughtfulness  and  tenderness.  The  most  likely  scheme, 
and  one  which  Lady  Dunsmore  had  herself  suggested,  was 
that,  as  the  young  Ladies  Dacre  were  going  to  the  sea- 
side for  a  little,  Hannah  should  accompany  them,  or  rather 
chaperone  them,  taking  with  her  Rosie  and  Grace.  This 
would  be  a  quiet  life,  and  yet  not  a  life  quite  shut  out  of 
the  world.     ISTo  one  could  say  she  was  "  hiding." 

. "  For  you  must  not  hide,"  Bernard  argued ;  "  we  must 
not  look  as  if  we  were  ashamed  of  ourselves.  And  you 
must  be  somewhere  where  I  can  get  at  you — run  down  to 
see  my  child,  of  course,  whenever  it  is  practicable.  Still, 
you  are  best  a  little  out  of  the  way  too,  and  not  going 
much  into  society,  for  the  thing  is  sure  to  ooze  out." 

"How?" 

"  Oh,  though  my  people  pledged  me  to  secrecy  '  for  the 
honor  of  the  family,'  I  know  what  women's  tongues  are," 
said  Bernard,  bitterly.  "  Still  they  dare  not  say  or  do 
much,  seeing  I  shall  be  Sir  Bernard  some  time ;  and  then — 
But  however  things  end,  I  had  rather,  whatever  may  be 


260  HANNAH. 

the  curiosity  of  the  world  about  you,  that  it  was  not  grati- 
fied, but  that  you  lived  a  rather  secluded  life.  It  is  best, 
especially  considering  how  you  stand  with  respect  to  my 
family." 

"  I  comprehend  you.     Yes." 

"  Oh,  Hannah,  have  I  said  any  thing  to  wound  you  ? 
But  I  am  placed,  as  it  were,  between  two  fires.  What 
can  I  do?" 

"  Nothing.     Nor  I.     Fate  is  too  much  for  us ;  we  had . 
better  say  good-by  for  a  time.     Give  me  the  child  and  let 
me  go." 

And  at  the  moment  she  felt  as  if  she  did  not  care  where 
she  went  or  what  was  done  to  her.  It  was  all  pain ;  noth- 
ing but  pain.  In  her  sad  life  all  its  natural  delights 
seemed  turned  into  bitterness. 

Bernard  seized  her  hands — "  Tell  me  the  whole  truth. 
Tell  me  all  that  is  in  your  mind  about  me,  or  against  me 
— which  is  it  ?" 

Another  minute  and  she  might  have  said,  not  at  all  the 
tender  words  that  a  while  ago  she  had  meant  to  say,  but 
others  quite  opposite — words  which  might  have  placed  an 
eternal  barrier  between  her  and  the  man  she  loved ;  who, 
after  all,  was  only  looking  upon  their  position  with  a  man's 
eyes — always  harder  and  more  worldly  than  a  woman's. 

But  to  save  her  the  door  opened,  and  there  burst  in, 
with  a  cry  of  delight,  her  Rosie — her  "  sunshiny  child,"  as 
she  often  called  her.  The  little  thing,  who  had  been  with 
her  papa  every  day  for  the  last  week,  climbed  upon  him  in 
an  ecstasy,  then  turned  to  Hannah. 

"  Tannic  too.  Tannic  too !  Papa  and  Tannic  kiss  Rosie. 
Both  together !" 

It  was  going  back  to  the  old  ways ;  childhood  and  age 
are  alike  in  clinging  to  old  ways  and  resisting  the  small- 
est change. 

"  You  see,"  said  Bernard,  with  a  smile,  "  Rosie  herself 
insists  upon  things  being  as  they  used  to  be — as  they  ought 
to  be.     Rosie  herself  delights  in  us  '  both  together.' " 

Hannah  said  nothing ;  but,  clasping  her  darling,  she  laid 


HANNAH.  261 

her  weight  of  secret  pain  upon  the  unconscious,  childish 
bosom  which  was  already  the  receptacle  and  the  comfort 
of  half  her  woes. 

"  I  will  go  any  where,  and  do  any  thing  that  you  and 
Lady  Dunsmore  think  best,  if  I  may  only  have  Rosie  with 
me.  She'll  come,  I  know  ?"  And  Hannah  curled  round 
her  fingers  the  soft  little  ring  of  silky  hair — baby  hair 
which  had  never  been  cut,  and  which  netted  in  its  dainty 
meshes  all  her  motherly  heart.  "  Who  loves  poor  Tannic  ? 
Who's  Tannie's  darling  ?" 

"Ko — papa's  darling,"  said  the  child,  with  a  pretty 
waywardness,  and  then,  relenting,  came  and  laid  her  head 
in  her  aunt's  lap,  repeating  words  which  Hannah  had  for- 
gotten ever  having  said  to  her,  only  she  often  murmured 
her  soul  out  over  the  little  crib  at  night ;  and  Rosie's  ob- 
servation was  growing  so  sharp,  and  her  memory  so  clear. 
"  'No — papa's  darling ;  Tannie's  blessing  !"  Then  with  a 
little  silvery,  mischievous  laugh,  "  Blessed  tild !  Rosie 
blessed  tild !" 

Ay,  she  was  a  blessed  child. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Alone,  in  a  foreign  land — with  only  a  child  for  com- 
pany and  a  servant  for  protection,  this,  in  the  strange  vi- 
cissitudes of  Hannah's  life,  was  her  position  now.  Acci- 
dentally, rather  than  intentionally,  for  Lady  Dunsmore 
had  taken  all  care  of  her,  and  meant  her  to  be  met  at 
Paris  by  Madame  Arthenay,  the  lady  to  whom  she  sent 
her,  and  who,  with  herself,  was  the  accomplice  of  Hannah's 
running  away. 

For  she  had  literally  "  run  away  " — by  not  only  the  con- 
currence, but  the  compulsion  of  her  faithful  friend,  who 
saw  that  the  strain  was  growing  too  hard  to  bear.  Living 
within  reach  of  Bernard's  visits,  which  were  half  a  joy  and 
half  a  dread,  exposed  to  the  continual  gossip  of  Easterham 


262  HANNAH. 

— since,  though  the  Moat  House  had  entirely  "  cut "  her, 
some  of  the  other  houses  did  not,  but  continued  by  letter 
a  patronizing  kindness  most  irritating — above  all,  suffering 
a  painful  inner  warfare  as  to  how  far  she  was  right  in  al- 
lowing Bernard  to  come  and  see  her,  since  every  time  he 
came  the  cruel  life  of  suspense  he  led  seemed  more  and 
more  to  be  making  him — not  merely  wretched  but  some- 
thing worse ;  all  these  trials,  in  course  of  time,  did  their 
work  upon  even  the  strong  heart  and  healthy  frame  of 
Hannah  Thelluson. 

"  You  are  breaking  down,"  said  the  countess,  when  one 
day  toward  the  summer's  end  she  came  to  take  her  young 
folks  home.  "  This  can  not  last.  You  must  do  as  I  once 
suggested — go  quite  away." 

"  I  can  not !"  said  Hannah,  faintly  smiling.  "  He  would 
not  let  me."  For  she  felt  herself  gradually  succumbing 
to  Bernard's  impetuous  will,  and  to  the  strength  of  a  pas- 
sion unto  which  impediments  seemed  to  have  given  a  force 
and  persistency  that  had  changed  his  whole  character. 

"  Not  let  you  go  away  ?  The  tyrant !  Men  are  all  ty- 
rants, you  know.     Very  well.     Then  you  must  run  away." 

"  He  will  follow  me — as  he  once  said  he  should — wher- 
ever I  went." 

"  Indeed  !  Quite  right  of  him.  Still,  as  I  object  to  tyr- 
anny, and  as  you  will  just  now  be  much  better  without 
him  than  with  him,  I  mean  to  help  you  to  run  away." 

"But  —  the  child! — he  will  miss  her  so.  And  I  must 
have  the  child  with  me !" 

"Of  course.  But  do  you  think  when  a  man  is  desper- 
ately in  love  he  troubles  himself  much  about  a  child? 
Hannah — my  dear  old  goose !  you  will  be  a  goose  to  the 
end  of  your  days.  Go  and  cackle  over  your  little  gosling, 
and  leave  me  to  manage  every  thing  for  you." 

Hannah  obeyed,  for  she  had  come  to  that  pass  when  her 
energies,  and  even  her  volition,  seemed  to  have  left  her. 
She  submitted  tacitly  to  the  countess's  plan,  which  was  to 
send  her  quite  out  of  England — to  a  distant  French  town, 
Avranches,  not  easily  reached,  being  beyond  the  limits  of 


HANNAH.  263 

railways — where  resided  a  dear  old  friend  of  Lady  Duiis- 
more's,  of  whom  she  had  often  talked  to  Hannah — one  Ma- 
dame Arthenay. 

"  She  will  be  the  best  protection  you  could  have,  for  she 
herself  married  her  sister's  husband,  as  is  constantly  done 
in  France ;  so  no  need  of  concealment,  my  dear.  I  shall 
just  tell  her  every  thing.  And  you  need  not  mind  even  if 
Mr.  Rivers  does  swoop  down  upon  you  some  day — after 
his  fashion.  But  he  can't — Avranches  is  too  far  off.  Nor 
will  I  let  him,  if  I  can  help  it.  I  shall  tell  him  he  must 
leave  you  in  peace,  to  regain  your  strength  and  quiet  your 
nerves.     Good-by  now,  and  God  bless  you  !" 

The  good  countess,  as  she  made  this  hurried  farewell  on 
board  the  French  steamboat,  left  them.  Almost  before 
Hannah  knew  where  she  was,  or  what  she  had  consented 
to,  she  found  herself  alone  with  Kosie  and  Grace.  Lady 
Dunsmore  did  not  say  what  deeper  reason  she  had  for  thus 
effecting  a  temporary  separation,  sudden  and  complete, 
between  the  lovers,  even  though  it  involved  what  she  call- 
ed the  "  kidnapping  "  of  little  Rosie.  Knowing  the  world, 
and  the  men  therein,  a  good  deal  better  than  her  friend 
did,  she  foreboded  for  Hannah  a  blow  heavier  than  any 
yet.  That  hapless  elder  brother,  the  present  Sir  Austin, 
was  said  to  be  in  a  dying  state ;  and  for  Sir  Bernard  Riv- 
ers of  the  Moat  House,  the  last  representative  of  so  long 
a  line,  to  contract  an  illegal  marriage,  in  which  his  wife 
would  be  shut  out  of  society,  and  his  children  held  by  law 
as  illegitimate,  was  a  sacrifice  at  which  the  most  passion- 
ate lover  might  well  hesitate.  While,  under  these,  or  any 
circumstances,  for  him  to  doom  himself  for  life  to  celibacy, 
was  scarcely  to  be  expected. 

Lady  Dunsmore  had  come  to  know  Mr.  Rivers  pretty 
well  by  this  time.  She  liked  him  extremely  —  as  most 
women  did — but  her  liking  did  not  blind  her  to  a  convic- 
tion, founded  on  a  certain  Scotch  proverb:  "As  the  auld 
cock  craws,  the  young  cock  learns " — that,  when  he  was 
put  to  the  crucial  test,  the  world  and  his  own  family  might 
be  too  strong  for  Sir  Bernard.     Therefore,  on  all  accounts, 


264  HANNAH. 

she  was  glad  at  this  time  to  get  Hannah  out  of  the  way. 
But  her  plans,  too  hastily  formed,  somehow  miscarried; 
for  at  Paris  her  two  friends  contrived  to  miss  one  another. 
When  Miss  Thelluson  reached  Avranches,  it  was  to  find 
Madame  Arthenay  away,  and  herself  quite  alone  in  that 
far-away  place,  with  only  Grace  and  the  child. 

At  first  this  loneliness  was  almost  pleasant.  Ever  since 
crossing  the  Channel  she  had  felt  lulled  into  a  kind  of  stu- 
por: the  strange  peace  of  those  who  have  cut  the  cable 
between  themselves  and  home,  left  all  their  burdens  be- 
hind, and  drifted  away  into  what  seems  like  "  another  and 
a  better  world."  During  her  few  days  of  traveling  she 
had  been  conscious  only  of  a  sunshiny  sky  and  smiling 
earth,  of  people  moving  about  her  with  lively  tongues  and 
cheerful  faces.  Every  thing  was  entirely  new,  for  she  had 
never  been  abroad  before ;  and  whether  the  land  was 
France  or  Paradise  did  not  much  matter.  She  had  her 
child  beside  her,  and  that  was  enough. 

She  had  Grace  too.  Many  a  servant  is,  in  trouble,  al- 
most better  than  a  friend,  because  a  servant  is  silent — 
Grace  was,  even  to  a  fault.  Trouble  had  hardened  her 
sorely.  Even  when,  a  few  months  before,  the  last  blow 
had  fallen,  the  last  tie  was  broken  between  her  and  Jem 
Dixon  —  for  their  child  had  died  —  poor  Grace  had  said 
only,  "  It  is  best.  My  boy  might  have  grown  up  to  blame 
his  mother  for  his  existence."  Words  which,  when  Han- 
nah heard,  made  her  shiver  in  her  inmost  soul. 

That  the  girl  knew  perfectly  well  her  mistress's  position 
with  respect  to  Mr.  Rivers,  was  evident.  When  he  came, 
the  nurse  abstained  from  intruding  npon  them,  and  kept 
other  intruders  away,  in  a  manner  which,  though  not  ob- 
noxiously shown,  occasionally  touched,  sometimes  vexed, 
but  always  humiliated,  Hannah.  Still,  in  her  sad  circum- 
stances, she  was  glad  to  have  the  protection  of  even  this 
dumb  watch-dog  of  a  faithful  servant. 

Grace  seemed  greatly  relieved  when  the  sea  rolled  be- 
tween them  and  England.  "  It  would  take  a  good  bit  of 
time  and  trouble  for  any  body  to  come  after  us  here,"  said 


HANNAH.  265 

she,  as  they  climbed  the  steep  hill  on  the  top  of  which  sits 
the  lovely  tower  of  Avranches,  and  looked  back  on  the 
long  line  of  straight  road,  miles  upon  miles,  visible  through 
the  green,  woody  country,  which  they  had  traversed  in 
driving  from  Granville.  "It  feels  quite  at  the  world's 
end ;  and,  unless  folk  knew  where  we  were,  they  might  as 
well  seek  after  a  needle  in  a  hay-rick.  A  good  job,  too !" 
muttered  she,  with  a  glance  at  the  worn  face  of  her  dear 
mistress,  who  faintly  smiled. 

"Nobody  does  know  our  whereabouts  exactly,  Grace. 
We  have  certainly  done  what  I  often  in  my  youth  used  to 
long  to  do — run  away,  and  left  no  address." 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,  ma'am.  Then  you'll  have  a  good  long 
rest." 

She  had,  but  in  an  unexpected  way.  They  found  Ma- 
dame Arthenay  absent,  and  her  little  house  shut  up. 

"  We  must  take  refuge  in  the  hotel,"  said  Hannah,  with 
a  weary  look.  "  It  seems  a  pleasant  place  to  lie  down  and 
rest  in." 

It  was;  and  for  a  few  hours  she  lingered  about  with 
Rosie  in  the  inn  garden  —  a  green,  shady,  shut-in  nook, 
with  only  a  stray  tourist  or  two  sitting  reading  on  its 
benches ;  full  of  long,  low  espaliers,  heavy  with  Norman- 
dy pears.  There  were  masses  of  brilliant  autumn  flowers, 
French  and  African  marigolds,  zinnias,  and  so  on — treas- 
ures that  the  child  kept  innocently  begging  for,  w^ith  a  pre- 
cocious enjoyment  of  the  jingle  of  rhyme.  "  Give  me  pret- 
ty posie,  to  stick  in  Rosie  'ittle  bosie  !"  Hannah  roused 
herself  once  or  twice,  to  answer  her  little  girl,  and  explain 
that  the  flowers  were  not  hers  to  gather,  and  that  Rosie 
must  be  content  with  a  stray  daisy  or  two,  for  she  never 
exacted  blind  obedience  where  she  could  find  a  reason  in- 
telligible to  the  little  awakening  soul.  But  when,  after  a 
tear  or  two,  Rosie  submitted  to  fate,  and  entreated  Tannic 
to  "  come  with  Rosie  find  daisies — lots  of  daisies  !"  Aunt 
Hannah  also  succumbed. 

"  Tannic  can't  come ;  she  must  go  to  her  bed,  my  dar- 
ling.    Poor  Tannic  is  so  tired." 

M 


266  .  HANNAH. 

And  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  went  to  bed  before 
the  child,  laying  her  head  down  on  the  pillow  with  a  feel- 
ing as  if  it  would  be  a  comfort  never  to  lift  it  up  any- 
more. 

After  these  ensued  days — three  or  four — of  which  she 
never  liked  to  speak  much  afterward.  She  lay  in  a  nerv- 
ous fever,  utterly  helpless ;  and  when,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  few  words  of  French  which  Grace  was  able  to  recall 
— the  Misses  Melville  having  amused  themselves  once  with 
teaching  her — and  the  quickness,  intelligence,  and  tender- 
heartedness of  the  inn-servants — good,  simple  Frenchwom- 
en, with  the  true  womanly  nature  which  is  the  same  all 
the  world  over — things  would  have  gone  hard  with  Han- 
nah Thelluson. 

More  than  once,  vague  and  wandering  as  her  thoughts 
were,  she  bitterly  repented  having  "  run  away ;"  thereby 
snatching  Kosie  from  her  natural  protector,  and  carrying 
her  off  into  these  strange  lands,  whence,  perhaps,  she  might 
never  be  able  to  bring  her  back,  but  herself  lie  down  to 
rise  up  no  more.  But  by-and-by  even  this  vain  remorse 
vanished,  and  she  was  conscious  of  thinking  about  nothing 
beyond  the  roses  on  the  chintz  bed-curtains  and  the  pat- 
tern of  the  paper-hangings — birds  of  paradise,  with  their 
sweeping  tails ;  the  angle  which  the  opposite  house  made 
against  the  sky,  the  curious  shape  of  its  tiling,  and  the 
name  of  the  Boutiquier  inscribed  thereon,  the  first  few 
letters  of  which  were  cut  off  by  her  window-ledge.  So 
childish  had  her  mind  grown,  so  calmly  receptive  of  all 
that  happened,  however  extraordinary,  that  when  one  day 
a  kind-looking,  elderly  lady  came  into  her  room,  and  began 
talking  in  broken  English  to  Grace  and  the  child,  and  to 
herself,  in  the  sweetest  French  she  ever  heard,  Hannah  ac- 
cepted the  fact  at  once,  and  took  scarcely  more  than  half 
a  day  to  get  quite  accustomed  to  Madame  Arthenay. 

She  was  one  of  those  women,  of  which  France  may 
boast  so  many,  as  unlike  our  English  notion  of  a  French- 
woman as  the  caricatures  of  John  Bull  who  strut  about  on 
the  French  stage  are  like  a  real  Briton.     Feminine,  do- 


HANNAH.  267 

mcstic — though,  after  having  brought  up  two  families,  her 
sister's  and  her  own,  she  now  lived  solitary  in  her  pretty 
little  nest  of  a  house ;  a  strict,  almost  stern  Protestant ; 
pure  alike  in  act,  and  thoughts,  and  words — you  would 
hardly  have  believed  she  was  born  in  the  same  land  or 
came  of  the  same  race  as  the  women  who  figure  in  modern 
French  novels,  or  who  are  met  only  too  often  in  modern 
Parisian  society.  As  Grace  said  of  her  after  she  had  gone, 
"Ma'am,  I  don't  care  how  often  she  comes  to  see  you,  or 
how  long  she  stays.  She  doesn't  bother  me  one  bit.  She's 
just  like  an  Englishwoman." 

— Which  Madame  Arthenay  certainly  was  not,  and 
would  have  smiled  at  the  narrow-judging,  left-handed 
complimelit.  But  she  was  a  noble  type  of  the  noblest  bit 
of  womanly  nature,  which  is  the  same,  or  nearly  the  same, 
in  all  countries.  IsTo  wonder  Lady  Dunsmore  loved  her, 
or  that,  as  she  prophesied,  Hannah  loved  her  too — in  a 
shorter  time  than  she  could  have  throught  it  possible  to 
love  any  stranger,  and  a  foreigner  likewise. 

"  Strangers  and  foreigners,  so  w^e  each  are  to  one  anoth- 
er," said  the  French  lady  early  one  morning,  after  she  had 
sat  up  all  night  with  Hannah — to  give  Grace  a  rest.  "And 
yet  we  do  not  feel  so ;  do  we  ?  I  think  it  is  because  we 
iDelong  to  the  same  kingdom — the  kingdom  of  God." 

For  underneath  all  her  gayety  and  lightness  of  heart, 
Madame  Arthenay  was  a  very  religious  woman — as,  she 
told  Hannah,  "  we  Protestants  "  generally  were ;  thorough- 
ly domestic  and  home-loving  likewise. 

"  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  we  French  all  fall  in 
love  with  one  another's  wives  and  husbands,  or  that  we 
compel  our  children  to  make  cruel  manages  de  conve- 
nance^  as  you  English  fancy  we  do.  My  sister's  was  a 
love-marriage,  like  mine,  and  all  my  children's  were.  You 
would  find  us  not  so  very  different  from  yourselves  if  you 
once  came  and  settled  among  us.     Suppose  you  were  to 

try." 

So  said  she,  looking  kindly  at  her ;  but  though,  as  both 
knew,  she  had  been  told  every  thing,  this  was  the  first 


268  HANNAH. 

time  Madame  Arthenay  had  made  any  allusion  to  Miss 
Thelluson's  future  or  her  own  past.  Besides,  they  did  not 
talk  very  much,  she  speaking  chiefly  in  French,  which 
Hannah  found  it  an  effort  to  follow.  But  she  loved  to 
read  the  cosmopolitan  language  of  the  sweet  eyes,  to  ac- 
cept the  good  offices  of  the  tender,  skillful,  useful  hands. 
Years  afterward,  when  all  its  bitterness,  and  pain,  and  ter- 
ror had  died  out,  the  only  thing  she  remembered  about 
that  forlorn  illness  in  a  far-away  French  town  was  the 
kindness  of  all  the  good  French  people  about  her,  and  es- 
pecially of  Madame  Arthenay. 

But  w^hen  she  was  convalescent,  Hannah's  heart  woke 
up  from  the  stupor  into  which  it  had  fallen.  She  wanted 
to  get  well  all  in  a  minute,  that  she  might  have  back  her 
little  Rosie,  who  had  been  spirited  away  from  her  by  those 
compassionate  French  mothers,  and  w^as  turning  into  U7i^ 
petite  Frang^aise  as  fast  as  possible.  Above  all,  she  craved 
for  news  from  home':  it  was  a  fortnight  now  since  she  had 
had  one  word  —  one  line.  She  did  not  wish  —  nay,  she 
dreaded — to  have  a  letter  from  Bernard;  but  she  would 
have  liked  to  hear  of  him — how  he  took  the  news  of  her 
flight,  w^hether  he  was  angry  with  her,  and  w^hether  he 
missed  his  child.  But  no  tidings  came,  and  she  did  not 
w^ant  to  write  till  she  was  better.  Besides,  Madame  Ar- 
thenay took  all  the  writing  things  away. 

"  You  are  my  slave,  my  captive.  Madame  la  Comtesse 
exacts  it,"  said  she,  in  her  pretty  French.  "  You  are  not 
to  do  a  single  thing,  nor  to  stir  out  of  your  room  until  I 
give  you  leave,  which  will  likely  be  to-morrow.  And  now 
I  must  bid  you  adieu,  as  I  have  a  friend  coming  who  will 
stay  the  whole  day.  Could  you  rest  here  quiet,  do  you 
think,  and  spare  me  an  hour  of  Grace  and  Hosie  ?  I 
should  like  to  show  my  friend  the  little  English  rose." 

Hannah  promised  vaguely,  and  was  left  alone — to  study, 
as  heretofore,  the  flowers  on  the  chintz  and  the  long-tailed 
birds  on  the  wall.  She  was  getting  very  weary  of  her  im- 
prisonment— she  who  had  never  before  been  confined  to 
her  room  for  a  Avhole  week.     It  was  a  lovely  day;  she 


HANNAH.  2G9 

knew  that  by  the  bit  of  intensely  blue  sky  behind  the 
house-tiles  opposite,  and  the  soft,  sweet  air  that,  together 
with  the  cheerful  street  noises  of  a  foreign  town,  entered 
in  at  the  open  window.  A  longing  to  "  rise  up  and  walk" 
came  over  her — to  go  out  and  see  what  could  be  seen; 
above  all,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  glorious  view  which 
she  had  noticed  in  coming  up  the  hill — the  sea  view,  with 
Mont  St.  Michel  in  the  distance ;  that  wonderful  rock  cas- 
tle, dedicated  to  her  favorite  angel  (in  the  days  when  she 
was  a  poetical  young  lady  she  always  had  a  statue  of  him 
in  her  room),  St.  Michael,  the  angel  of  high  places,  the  an- 
gel who  fights  against  wrong. 

It  was  a  vagary,  more  like  a  school-girl  than  a  grown 
woman ;  but  Hannah  could  not  help  it.  She  felt  she  must 
go  out — must  feel  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine,  and  try  if 
she  could  walk,  if  there  was  any  remnant  of  health  and 
strength  left  in  her ;  for  she  would  need  both  so  much. 

She  was  already  dressed,  for  she  had  insisted  upon  it. 
Searching  for  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  smiling  with  a 
pathetic  pleasure  to  find  she  really  could  walk  pretty  well 
— also  wondering,  with  childish  amusement,  as  to  whether, 
if  Grace  met  her,  she  would  not  take  her  for  a  ghost — Han- 
nah stole  down  through  the  quiet  hotel,  and  out  into  the 
street — that  picturesque  street  of  Avranches  which  leads 
toward  the  public  gardens,  and  the  spot  where,  within  six 
square  feet,  is  piled  up  the  poor  remnant  of  its  once  splen' 
did  cathedral. 

Madame  Arthenay  had  described  it,  and  the  various 
features  of  the  town,  during  the  gentle,  flowing,  unexcit- 
ing conversation  which  she  pertinaciously  kept  up  by  the 
invalid's  bedside ;  so  Hannah  easily  found  her  way  thith- 
er, tottering  a  little  at  first,  but  soon  drinking  in  the  life- 
giving  stimulus  of  that  freshest,  purest  air,  blowing  on  a 
hill-top  from  over  the  sea.  All  her  life  Hannah  had  loved 
high  places ;  they  feel  nearer  heaven  somehow,  and  lift  one 
above  the  petty  pains  and  groveling  pleasures  of  this  mor- 
tal life.  Even  now,  weak  as  she  was,  she  was  conscious 
of  a  sensation  of  pleasure,  as  if  her  life  were  not  all  done. 


270  HANNAH. 

She  wandered  about,  losing  her  way,  and  finding  it  again ; 
or  amusing  herself  by  asking  it  of  those  kindly,  courte- 
ous French  folk,  who,  whenever  they  looked  in  her  face, 
stopped,  and  softened  their  voices,  as  if  they  knew  she  had 
been  ill  and  in  trouble.  One  of  them — a  benign-looking 
old  gentleman,  taking  the  air  with  his  old  wife,  just  like 
an  English  Darby  and  Joan — civilly  pointed  out  to  her  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes  as  being  a  charming  place  to  walk  in, 
where  raadame  would  find  easy  benches  to  repose  herself 
upon,  and  a  sea-view,  with  Mont  St.  Michel  in  it,  that  was 
truly  "  magnifique."  Madarae's  own  beautiful  island  could 
furnish  nothing  finer.  Hannah  smiled,  amused  at  the  im- 
possibility of  passing  for  any  thing  but  an  Englishwoman, 
in  spite  of  her  careful  French,  and  went  thither. 

It  was  a  beautiful  spot.  Sick  souls  and  weary  bodies 
might  well  repose  themselves  there,  after  the  advice  of  the 
good  little  fat  Frenchman — how  fat  Frenchmen  do  grow 
sometimes  !  The  fine  air  was  soft  as  cream  and  strong  as 
wine,  and  the  cloudless  sunshine  lay  round  about  like  a 
flood,  over  land  and  sea — the  undulating  sweep  of  forest 
country  on  the  right  hand,  and  on  the  left  the  bay,  with 
its  solitary  rock — fortress,  prison,  monastery — about  which 
Madame  Arthenay,  in  her  charming  small-talk,  so  fitted  for 
a  sick-room,  had  told  stories  without  end. 

Involuntarily,  Hannah  sat  and  thought  of  them  now, 
and  not  of  her  own  troubles :  these  seemed  to  have  slipped 
away,  as  they  often  do  in  a  short,  sharp  illness,  and  she 
woke  refreshed,  as  after  a  night's  sleep,  able  to  assume 
again  the  burden  of  the  day.  Only  she  lay  and  medi- 
tated, as  one  does  before  rising,  in  a  dreamy  sort  of  way, 
in  which  her  old  dreams  came  back  to  her.  Looking  at 
that  lonely  rock,  she  called  up  the  figure  of  her  saint — the 
favorite  St.  Michael  of  her  girlhood,  with  his  head  bent  for- 
ward and  his  sweet  mouth  firmly  set;  his  hands  leaning 
on  his  sword,  ready  to  fight,  able  even  to  avenge,  but  yet 
an  angel  always ;  and  there  came  into  her  that  saving 
strength  of  all  beaten-down,  broken-hearted  creatures,  the 
belief— alas !  often  so  faint — that  God  does  sometimes  send 


HANNAH.  271 

his  messengers  to  fight  against  wrong ;  not  merely  to  suc- 
cor, but  absolutely  to  fight. 

"  No,  I  will  not  die — not  quite  yet,"  she  said  to  herself, 
as,  in  this  far-distant  nook  of  God's  earth,  which  seemed 
to  have  his  smile  perpetually  upon  it,  she  thought  of  her 
own  England,  made  homeless  to  her  through  trouble,  and 
bitter  with  persecution.  "  Oh,  that  I  had  the  wings  of  a 
dove !  Here,  perhaps,  I  might  find  rest.  But  still  I  will 
not  die :  they  shall  not  kill  me.  They  may  take  my  char- 
acter away — they  may  make  him  forsake  me,  as  I  dare  say 
he  will ;  but  I  have  strength  in  my  soul  nevertheless.  And 
I  will  fight  against  their  cruelty — I  will  protest  to  the  last 
that  I  had  a  right  to  love  him,  a  right  to  marry  him;  that 
it  would  have  been  the  best  thing  for  him,  for  me,  and  the 
child.  Oh,  my  Bernard !  there  is  a  deal  of  the  angel  in 
you ;  but  if  there  were  more  of  the  St.  Michael — if,  instead 
of  submitting  to  wrong,  you  could  take  up  your  sword 
and  hew  it  down —  But  you  can  not.  I  know,  when  the 
time  comes,  you  will  forsake  me.  But  still — still — I  shall 
have  the  child." 

Thus  sighed  she ;  and  then,  determined  to  sigh  no  more, 
to  complain  no  more,  to  any  living  creature,  but  to  do  her 
best  to  get  health  and  strength  of  body  and  mind,  Hannah 
rose  up  from  the  heap  of  stones  where  she  had  been  sit- 
ting. With  one  fond  look  at  that  glorious  picture  which 
lay  below  her — earth,  sea,  and  sky,  equally  beautiful,  and 
blending  together  in  the  harmony  which  soothes  one's 
soul  into  harmony  too  —  she  turned  her  steps  home- 
ward ;  that  is,  "  chez  elle,"  for  to  poor  Hannah  Thelluson 
there  was  not — would  there  ever  be? — such  a  thing  as 
home. 

As  she  went,  she  saw  a  figure  coming  toward  her,  walk- 
ing rapidly,  and  looking  round  as  if  searching  for  some 
one.  Had  it  been  possible  —  or,  rather,  had  not  the  ex- 
treme improbability  of  such  a  thing  made  her  stop  a  min- 
ute, and  draw  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  to  make  sure  that 
imagination  was  not  playing  her  false — she  should  have 
said  it  was  Bernard. 


272  n  ANN  AH. 

He  saw  her  likewise ;  and  the  two  ghosts — ^for  strangely 
ghostly  they  both  looked  to  one  another's  eyes — met. 

"  Hannah !  how  could  you — " 

"  Bernard !  oh,  Bernard  !" 

She  was  so  glad  to  see  him — he  could  not  help  finding 
it  out ;  nor  did  she  try  to  hide  it — she  was  too  weak.  She 
clung  to  his  arm,  her  voice  choking,  her  tears  falling  fast 
— tears  of  pure  helplessness,  and  of  joy  also.  He  had  not 
forsaken  her. 

"  How  could  you  run  away  in  this  manner  ?  We  have 
been  searching  for  you — ^Madame  Arthenay,  Grace,  and  I 
— for  hours." 

"  Not  quite  hours,"  said  she,  smiling  at  last.  "  It  was 
fully  one  o'clock  when  I  left  my  room.  Was  that  what 
you  meant  by  my  running  away?"  For  she  was  half 
afraid  of  him,  gentle  as  he  seemed,  and  wished  to  have  the 
worst  over  at  once. 

Bernard  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can  not  scold  you  now.  I  am  only  too  happy  to  see 
you  once  again,  my  darling." 

He  had  never  called  her  so  before ;  indeed,  she  was  the 
sort  of  woman  more  to  be  honored  and  loved  in  a  quiet, 
silent  way  than  fondled  over  with  caressing  words.  Still, 
the  tenderness  was  very  sweet  to  have — sweeter  because 
she  felt  so  miserably  weak. 

"  How  did  you  find  me  out  ?"  she  said,  as  they  walked 
up  the  town.  And  it  seemed  as  if  now,  for  the  first  time, 
they  were  free  to  walk  together,  with  no  cruel  eyes  upon 
them,  no  backbiting  tongues  pursuing  them. 

"  How  did  I  find  you  ?  Why,  I  tracked  you  like  a  Red 
Indian.  Of  course  I  should — to  the  world's  end !  What 
else  did  you  expect,  I  wonder  ?" 

Hannah  hardly  knew  what  she  had  expected — what 
feared.  In  truth,  she  was  content  to  bask  in  the  present, 
with  a  passionate  eagerness  of  enjoyment  which  those  only 
know  who  have  given  up  the  future  hopelessly  and  en- 
tirely. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  she  grew  so  rapidly  better  that, 


HANNAH.  273 

when  Bernard  proposed  going,  for  an  Lour  or  two,  to  the 
house  of  Madame  Arthenay,  she  assented.  He  seemed 
quite  at  home  there — "flirted"  with  the  sweet  old  French 
lady  in  the  most  charming  manner.  He  had  been  with 
her  since  yesterday,  she  said,  and  was  indeed  the  "friend" 
to  whom  she  wished  to  show  the  little  English  Rose. 

"  Monsieur  speaks  French  like  a  Frenchman,  as  he  ought, 
having  been  at  school  at  Caen,  he  tells  me,  for  two  years. 
He  does  credit  to  his  Norman  blood." 

Which  Madame  Arthenay  evidently  thought  far  supe- 
rior to  any  thing  Saxon,  and  that  the  great  William  had 
done  us  Britons  the  greatest  possible  honor  in  condescend- 
ing to  conquer  us.  But  Hannah  would  not  smile  at  the 
dear  old  lady,  whom,  she  saw,  Bernard  liked  extremely. 

Soon  they  settled,  amicably  and  gayly,  to  the  most  de- 
licious of  coffee  and  the  feeblest  of  tea,  in  Madame  Arthe- 
nay's  cottage — a  series  of  rooms  all  on  the  ground-floor, 
and  all  opening  into  one  another  and  into  the  garden — sa- 
lon, salle-a-manger,  two  bed-chambers,  and  a  kitchen,  half 
of  which  was  covered  by  a  sort  of  loft,  up  which  the  one 
servant — a  faithful  old  soul,  who  could  do  any  thing  and 
put  up  with  any  thing — mounted  of  nights  to  her  bed :  a 
menage  essentially  French,  with  not  a  fragment  of  wealth 
or  show  about  it,  but  all  was  so  pretty,  so  tasteful,  so  suit- 
able. It  felt  like  living  in  a  bird's  nest,  with  green  leaves 
outside  and  moss  within — a  nest  one  could  live  in  like  the 
birds,  as  innocently  and  merrily — a  veritable  bit  of  Arca- 
dia.    Mr.  Rivers  said  so. 

"Ah,  you  should  come  and  live  among  us,"  said  Ma- 
dame Arthenay.  "  In  this  our  Normandy,  though  we  may 
be  a  century  behind  you  in  civilization,  I  sometimes  think 
we  are  a  century  nearer  than  you  are  to  the  long-past 
Golden  Age.  We  lead  simpler  lives,  we  honor  our  fathers 
and  mothers,  and  look  after  our  children  ourselves.  Then, 
too,  our  servants  are  not  held  so  wide  apart  from  us  as 
you  hold  yours.  Old  Jeanne,  for  instance,  is  quite  a  friend 
of  mine." 

"  So  is  Grace,"  Hannah  said. 
M2 


214  HANNAH. 

"Ah,  yes;  poor  Grace!  she  one  day  told  me  her  story." 
And  then,  turning  suddenly  to  Bernard,  "  I  assure  you,  we 
are  very  good  people  here  in  Normandy.  You  might  like 
us  if  you  knew  us.  Monsieur  Rivers,  why  not  come  among 
us  and  resume  the  old  name,  and  be  Monsieur  de  la  Ri- 
viere?" 

Bernard  started,  looked  earnestly  at  her,  to  see  if  any 
deeper  meaning  lurked  under  her  pleasantry. 

"  Take  care,"  he  said ;  "  many  a  true  word  is  spoken  in 
jest."  And  then  he  suddenly  changed  the  conversation 
and  asked  about  an  old  Chateau  de  Saint  Roque,  which 
some  one  had  told  him  was  well  worth  seeing,  and  might 
be  seen  easily,  as  it  was  on  sale. 

"  I  know  the  present  owner,  a  Lyons  merchant,  finds  it 
dull.  He  bought  it  from  the  last  proprietaire,  to  whom  it 
had  descended  in  a  direct  line,  people  say,  ever  since  the 
Crusades  ;  and  —  such  a  curious  coincidence,  monsieur — 
the. family  were  named  De  la  Riviere.  Who  knows  but 
you  may  be  revisiting  the  cradle  of  your  ancestors  ?  If 
Miss  Thelluson  is  able,  you  ought  certainly  to  go  and 
see  it." 

Bernard  assented,  and  all  was  soon  arranged.  He  was 
in  one  of  his  happiest  moods,  Hannah  saw.  He,  like  her- 
self, felt  the  influence  of  the  sunshiny  atmosphere,  within 
and  without,  in  this  pleasant  nook  of  pleasant  France— the 
distance  from  home  sorrows,  the  ease  and  freedom  of  in- 
tercourse with  Madame  Arthenay,  who  knew  every  thing 
and  blamed  nothing.  When,  next  day,  they  all  met,  and 
drove  together  across  the  smiling  country,  amusing  them- 
selves with  the  big  blue-bloused  ISTorman  peasant,  who 
kept  cracking  his  long  whip  and  conversing  with  his 
horses  in  shrill  patois  that  resounded  even  above  the  jin- 
gle of  their  bells,  Hannah  thought  she  had  seldom,  in  all 
the  time  they  had  known  one  another,  seen  him  looking 
60  gay. 

Saint  Roque  was  one  of  those  chateaux  of  which  there 
are  many  in  Normandy,  built  about  the  time  of  the  Cru- 
sades —  half  mansion,  half  fortress.     It  was  situated  in  a 


HANNAH.  275 

little  valley,  almost  English  in  its  character,  with  sleepy 
cows  basking  in  the  meadows,  and  blackberries  —  such 
blackberries  as  little  Rosie  screamed  at  with  delight,  they 
were  so  large  and  fine — hanging  on  the  hedges,  and  hon- 
eysuckle, sweet  as  English  honeysuckle,  perfuming  every 
step  of  the  road.  Suddenly  they  came  upon  this  minia- 
ture mediaeval  castle,  with  its  four  towers  reflected  in  the 
deep  clear  water  of  the  moat,  which  they  crossed  by  a 
draw-bridge — and  then  were  all  at  once  carried  from  old 
romance  to  modern  comfort,  but  picturesque  still. 

Hannah  thought  she  had  never  seen  a  sweeter  place. 
"I  only  wish  I  were  rich  and  could  buy  it.  I  think  I 
could  live  content  here  all  my  days,"  said  she  to  the  Ly- 
ons merchant's  wife,  whom  Madame  Arthenay  knew,  and 
who,  with  her  black-eyed  boy  clinging  to  her  gown,  po- 
litely showed  her  every  thing. 

"Did  you  mean  what  you  said?"  whispered  Bernard, 
eagerly.  And  then  he  drew  back,  and,  without  waiting 
for  her  answer,  began  talking  to  Madame  Arthenay. 

That  night,  when  he  took  them  safe  to  the  hotel  door, 
he  detained  Hannah,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  not  come 
round  the  garden  with  him  in  the  moonlight. 

"  The  air  is  soft  as  a  summer  night ;  it  will  do  you  no 
harm.  We  may  have  no  better  chance  of  talk,  and  I  want 
to  speak  to  you." 

Yet  for  many  minutes  he  said  nothing.  The  night  was 
so  still,  the  garden  so  entirely  deserted,  that  they  seemed 
to  have  for  once  the  world  to  themselves.  In  this  far- 
away spot  it  felt  as  if  they  had  left  all  the  bitterness  of 
their  life  behind  them — as  if  they  had  a  right  to  be  lovers, 
and  to  treat  one  another  as  such.  Bernard  put  his  arm 
round  her  as  they  sat ;  and  though  there  was  a  solemnity 
in  his  caresses,  and  a  tender  sadness  in  her  reception  of 
them  which  marked  them  as  people  who  had  known  sor- 
row, very  different  from  boy  and  girl  lovers,  still  love  was 
very  sweet — implying  deep  content,  thankful  rest. 

"Hannah,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  have  never  yet  scolded 
you  properly  for  your  running  away — with  Lady  Duns- 


276  HANNAH. 

more  aiding  and  abetting  you.  She  would  scarcely  tell 
me  where  you  were,  until  I  hinted  that,  as  a  father,  I  had 
a  right  to  get  possession  of  my  child.  Why  did  you  do 
such  a  thing  ?    You  must  never  do  it  again." 

She  laughed,  but  said  nothing.  In  truth,  they  were  both 
too  happy  for  either  anger  or  contrition. 

"  Dearest,"  he  whispered,  "  we  must  be  married.  I 
shall  never  have  any  rest  till  you  are  wholly  and  lawfully 
mine." 

"  Oh,  Bernard  !  if  that  could  ever  be !" 

"  It  shall  be.  I  have  been  talking  to  Madame  Arthenay 
about  it,  as  Lady  Dunsmore  charged  me  to  do.  She  loves 
you  well,  Hannah ;  and  the  dear  old  French  lady  loves 
you  too  already.  Every  body  loves  you,  and  would  like 
to  see  you  happy." 

"  Happy !"  And  it  seemed  as  if  happiness  would  never 
come  any  nearer  to  her  than  now,  when  she  sat  as  if  in  a 
dream,  and  watched  the  moon  sailing  over  the  sky,  just  as 
she  had  done  in  her  girlhood  and  ever  since,  only  now  she 
was  lonely  no  more,  but  deeply  and  faithfully  loved ;  lov- 
ing, too,  as  she  never  thought  it  was  in  her  to  love  any 
man.  "Happy!  I  am  so  happy  now  that  I  almost  wish 
I  could  die." 

"Hush!"  Bernard  said,  with  a  shiver.  "Come  down 
from  the  clouds,  my  love,  and  listen  to  me — to  my  plain, 
rough  common  sense,  for  two  minutes." 

Then  he  explained  that  the  jest  about  his  becoming 
Monsieur  de  la  Riviere  was  not  entirely  a  jest — that  in 
talking  with  Madame  Arthenay  she  had  told  him  how, 
upon  giving  notice  to  the  French  Government,  and  re- 
siding three  years  in  France,  he  would  become  a  natural- 
ized French  citizen,  enjoying  all  the  benefits  of  French 
laws,  including  that  which,  by  obtaining  a  "dispensation" 
— seldom  or  never  refused — legalizes  marriage  with  a  de- 
ceased wife's  sister.  And  such  a  marriage,  Madame  Ar- 
thenay believed,  being  contracted  by  them  in  the  charac- 
ter of  French  subjects,  would  be  held  legal  any  where,  as 
her  own  had  been. 


HANNAH.  211 

A  future,  the  bare  chance  of  which  made  Hannah  feel 
like  a  new  creature.  To  be  Bernard's  happy,  honored 
wife,  Rosie's  rightful  mother;  to  enter  joyfully  upon  that 
life  which  to  every  home -loving  woman  is  the  utmost 
craving  of  her  nature ;  she  could  hardly  believe  it  true, 
or  that,  if  possible,  it  had  not  been  thought  of  before — 
until  a  sadder  thought  occurred  to  her. 

"  What  does  'naturalization '  mean?  Becoming  a  French- 
man?" 

"  Yes ;  also,  that  I  must '  change  my  domicile,'  as  law- 
yers call  it,  publicly  and  permanently — let  it  be  clearly 
known  that  I  never  mean  to  live  in  England  again." 

"Never  again!  That  would  involve  giving  up  much. 
How  much  ?" 

"  Every  thing !"  he  answered,  bitterly.  "  Home,  friends, 
profession,  position;  all  the  ambitions  I  ever  had  in  my 
life,  and  I  have  had  some.  Still,"  added  he — was  it  ten- 
derly or  only  kindly  ? — as  if  he  feared  he  had  hurt  her, 
"  still,  Hannah,  I  should  have  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hannah,  and  fell  into  deep  thought. 

How  much  is  a  woman  to  a  man — say,  the  noblest  wom- 
an to  the  best  and  truest  man  ?  How  far  can  she  replace 
to  him  every  thing,  supply  every  thing  ?  A  great  deal, 
no  doubt ;  and  men  in  love  say  she  can  do  all.  But  is  it 
true  ?  Does  after-experience  prove  it  true  ?  And  it  must 
be  remembered  that  in  this  case  the  woman's  experience 
of  the  man  was  close,  domestic  —  more  like  that  which 
comes  after  marriage  than  before.  She  knew  Mr.  Rivers 
perfectly  well  as  a  brother  before  she  ever  thought  of  him 
as  any  thing  else.  Loving  him,  she  loved  him  open-eyed, 
seeing  all  his  weak  as  well  as  his  strong  points  as  clearly 
as  he  saw  hers. 

Hannah  was  neither  an  over-conceited  nor  an  over-hum- 
ble person.  She  knew  perfectly  well  her  own  deserts  and 
requirements — Bernard's  too.  She  was  well  aware  that 
the  ties  of  home,  of  kindred,  of  old  associations,  were  with 
him  passionately  strong.  Also,  that  he  was,  as  he  said, 
an  ambitious  man — that  the  world  had  a  larger  place  in 


278  HANNAH. 

his  heart  than  it  had  ever  had  in  hers.  She  began  to 
tremble. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  she,  "  tell  me  the  exact  truth.  Do  you 
think  you  could  do  this  ?  Would  it  not  be  a  sacrifice  so 
painful,  so  difficult,  as  to  be  almost  impossible  ?" 

"  You  are  right,"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice,  and  turn- 
ing his  head  away ;  "  I  fear  it  would  be  impossible." 

Hannah  knew  it,  and  yet  she  wished  he  had  not  said  it. 
To  her,  with  her  ideal  of  love,  nothing,  except  sin,  would 
ever  have  been  found  impossible. 

They  sat  silent  a  while.  Then  Bernard,  assuming  a 
cheerful  tone,  continued — 

"But,  my  dearest,  there  is  a  medium  course.  Why 
should  w^e  not,  without  being  absolutely  naturalized,  take 
up  our  abode  in  France,  where  such  marriages  as  ours  are 
universally  recognized  ?  We  might  live  here  the  greater 
part  of  the  year,  and  only  go  to  England  occasionally. 
Even  then  we  need  not  mingle  in  English  society.  The 
curate  I  have  lately  taken  would  be  left  in  charge  of  my 
parish,  so  that  I  need  scarcely  ever  go  to  Easterham." 

"  That  means,"  said  Hannah,  slowly,  "  that  you  could 
never  take  me  to  Easterham.  Our  marriage,  after  all, 
would  be  like  the  other  foreign  marriages  of  w^hich  we 
have  spoken,  which  at  home  are  no  marriages  at  all. 
Abroad,  I  might  be  held  as  your  wife;  in  England,  I 
should  be  only — " 

"  No,  no,  no !"  broke  in  Bernard,  impetuously, "  do  not 
wound  me  by  the  cruel  word.  It  is  not  true.  People 
could  not  be  so  harsh,  so  wicked.  And  if  they  were,  why 
need  we  care,  when  our  own  consciences  are  satisfied? 
Oh,  my  love,  my  love,  w^hy  can  not  we  be  happy  ?  Is  it 
not  right  to  be  happy  in  this  short,  sad  life  of  ours,  which 
may  end  at  any  time  ?  Besides,"  and  his  voice  altered  so 
that  Hannah  scarcely  knew  it, "  you  are  not  aware  what 
harm  you  are  doing  me.  This  suspense  drives  me  nearly 
wild.  I  can  settle  to  nothing,  accomplish  nothing.  My 
life  is  wasting  away.  I  am  growing  a  Avorse  man  every 
day;  more  unworthy  of  you,  of  my  child,  of"  —  here  he 


HANNAH.  279 

stopped  and  looked  upward  solemnly — "  of  her  whom  I 
never  forget,  my  child's  mother.  Oh,  Hannah,  listen  to 
me  this  once,  this  last  time.  Here,  where  it  can  so  easily 
be  done,  marry  me.  For  God's  sake  marry  me — and  at 
once !" 

It  was  an  awful  struggle.  Worse  even  than  that  which 
she  had  gone  through  when  he  was  ill,  and  of  which  he 
never  knew.  The  questions  she  had  put  to  herself  then 
she  repeated  now  —  arguing  them  over  and  over  with  a 
resolute  will,  that  tried  to  judge  every  thing  impartially, 
and  not  with  relation  to  herself  at  all.  Other  arguments, 
too,  came  back  upon  her  mind,  arguments  belonging  to  the 
great  conflict  of  her  youth,  of  which  this  one  seemed  to  be 
such  a  cruel  repetition — with  a  difierence.  For  the  mar- 
riage with  her  cousin  would  have  risked  only  physical 
evils,  but  no  moral  suffering  or  social  disgrace  to  any  hu- 
man being ;  while  this  marriage,  which  the  law  would  nev- 
er recognize  as  such,  risked  much  more.  All  her  father 
had  then  said  to  her — her  dear  dead  father,  so  tender  and 
wise — of  the  rights  of  the  unborn  generation,  of  the  cruel- 
ty of  entailing  upon  them  the  penalty  of  our  joy,  if  that 
can  be  true  joy  which  is  so  dearly  bought — seemed  to  re- 
turn word  by  word,  and  burn  themselves  into  her  brain. 
With  Rosie,  even,  it  might  one  day  be  a  difficulty — when 
the  young  grown-up  girl  came  to  discover  that  her  father's 
wife  was  not  really  his  wife,  but  only  regarded  as  such  out 
of  courtesy  or  pity.  And — what  if  Rosie  should  not  al- 
ways be  the  only  child  ? 

Sitting  there,  Hannah  shuddered  like  a  person  in  an 
ague ;  and  then  all  feeling  seemed  to  leave  her,  as  if  she 
were  a  dead  woman,  unconscious  of  the  living  arms  that 
were  trying  to  warm  her  into  living  life. 

"  You  are  agitated,  my  own  love  !"  Bernard  whispered. 
"Take  time;  do  not  answer  me  quickly.  Think  it  well 
over  before  you  answer  at  all." 

"  I  have  thought  it  over,"  said  she,  looking  mournfully 
in  his  face,  and  clinging  to  his  hands,  as  those  cling  who 
know  they  are  putting  away  from  them  every  happiness 


280  nANNAH. 

of  this  world.  "  Not  now  only,  but  many  a  time  before,  I 
have  asked  myself  the  same  question,  and  found  the  same 
answer.  No,  Bernard,  for  God's  sake,  as  you  say,  which 
includes  all  other  sakes,  I  will  not  marry  you." 

Perhaps  they  ought  to  have  parted  then  and  there — 
Hannah  thought  afterward  it  had  been  better  if  they  had ; 
kinder  to  him  and  to  herself  if  she  had  fled  away  on  the 
spot,  nor  remained  to  have  to  endure  and  to  remember 
those  bitter  words  which  miserable  people  speak  in  haste, 
and  which  are  so  very  hard  to  be  forgotten  afterward — 
words  which  are  heard  afterward  like  ghostly  voices  in 
the  silence  of  separation,  making  one  feel  that  a  parting, 
if  it  must  be,  had  better  be  like  an  execution — one  blow, 
severing  soul  and  body ;  then  nothingness. 

That  nothingness,  that  quiet  death,  that  absence  of  all 
sensation,  which  she  had  felt  more  than  once  in  her  life,  af- 
ter great  anguish,  would  have  been  bliss  itself  to  the  feel- 
ing which  came  over  her  when,  having  pleaded  his  utmost, 
and  reproached  her  his  worst,  Bernard  rose  up,  to  part  from 
her  in  the  soft  moonlight  of  that  pleasant  garden,  as  those 
part  who  never  mean  to  meet  again. 

"  My  wife  you  must  be — or  nothing,"  he  had  said,  pas- 
sionately, and  she  had  answered  with  an  icy  conviction 
that  it  must  be  so — that  it  had  best  be  so.  "  Yes,  that  is 
true — a  wife  or  nothing."  And  then  the  lurking  "devil" 
which  we  all  have  in  us,  liable  to  be  roused  on  occasion, 
was  roused,  and  she  said  a  few  words  which,  the  next  min- 
ute, she  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  left  unsaid.  For 
the  same  minute  there  came  to  him,  put  into  his  hands  by 
Madame  Arthenay's  Jeanne,  a  letter,  an  English  letter, 
with  a  broad  black  edge. 

Bernard  took  it  with  a  start — not  of  sorrow  exactly, 
but  of  shocked  surprise. 

"  I  must  go  home  at  once.  In  truth,  I  ought  never  to 
have  left  home;  but  I  thought  of  nothing,  remembered 
nothing,  except  you,  Hannah.  And  this  is  how  you  have 
requited  me," 

"  Hush,  and  read  your  letter." 


HANNAH.  281 

She  dared  not  look  over  his  shoulder  and  read  it  with 
him — dared  not  even  inquire  what  the  sorrow  was  which 
she  had  now  no  right  to  share. 

Nor  did  he  tell  it ;  but,  folding  up  the  letter,  stood  in 
deep  thought  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  turned  to  her  cold- 
ly, as  coldly  as  if  she  had  been  any  stranger  lady,  to  whom 
he  gave  the  merest  courtesy  which  ladyhood  demanded 
from  a  gentleman — no  more. 

"  I  must  beg  you  to  make  my  excuses  to  Madame  Ar- 
thenay,  and  tell  her  that  I  am  summoned  home — I  can 
hardly  say  unexpectedly,  and  yet  it  feels  so.  Death  al- 
ways feels  sudden  at  last." 

He  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
realize  something,  to  collect  himself  after  some  great 
shock.  Hannah  said  a  broken  word  or  two  of  regret,  but 
he  repelled  them  at  once. 

"  No ;  this  death  needs  no  condolence.  It  is  no  sorrow 
— if  death  ever  is  a  sorrow  so  bitter  as  life,  which  I  begin 
to  doubt.  But  it  alters  every  thing  for  me,  and  for  Kosie, 
Poor  Austin  is  gone — I  am  Sir  Bernard  Rivers." 

Was  there  pride  in  his  tone — that  hard,  bitter  pride 
which  so  often  creeps  into  a  heart  from  which  love  has 
been  ruthlessly  driven  ?  Hannah  could  not  tell ;  but  when 
they  parted,  as  they  did  a  few  minutes  after,  coldly  shak- 
ing hands  like  common  acquaintances,  she  felt  that  it  was 
really  a  parting,  such  an  one  as  they  had  never  had  be- 
fore ;  a  separation  of  souls,  which  in  all  this  world  might 
never  be  united  again. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  This  is  the  end — the  end  of  all." 

So  Hannah  said  to  herself  when  Bernard  had  left,  and 
she  realized  that  they  had  truly  parted — parted  in  anger 
and  coldness,  after  many  bitter  words  spoken  on  both  sides. 
She  repeated  it,  morning  after  morning,  as  days  went  wea- 
rily by ;  and  no  letter  came — he  who  was  always  so  punc- 


282  HANNAH. 

tual  in  writing.  Evidently,  then,  lie  meant  the  parting  to 
be  final.  He  had  thrust  her  entirely  out  of  his  new  life, 
in  which  she  could  henceforward  have  no  part  or  lot. 

This,  under  the  circumstances,  was  so  inevitable,  that  at 
first  she  scarcely  blamed  him.  She  only  blamed  herself 
for  not  having  long  ago  foreseen  that  out  of  their  utterly 
false  position  no  good  end  could  come — no  end  but  that, 
indeed,  which  had  come.  She  had  lost  him  in  every  rela- 
tion— as  lover — as  brother — even  as  friend.  It  was  sure 
to  be — sooner  or  later ;  and  yet  when  the  blow  did  fall, 
it  was  a  very  heavy  one ;  and  many  times  a  day  she  bent 
under  the  weight  of  it  in  complete  abandonment  of  sor- 
row. 

Not  for  long,  however;  women  with  children  can  not 
afford  to  grieve  for  long.  The  very  first  morning,  when 
she  had  to  explain  to  Rosie  that  papa  was  gone  away 
home,  and  would  not  come  back  again  for  a  good  while 
(she  did  it  in  Grace's  presence,  who  opened  wide  eyes,  but 
said  nothing),  there  was  something  in  the  bright  face  of 
her  "  sunshiny  child  "  which  soothed  her  pain.  And  when, 
in  the  strange  way  that  children  say  the  most  opportune 
as  well  as  inopportune  things,  Rosie  sidled  up  to  her,  whis- 
pering, "Tannic  not  going  away  and  leave  Rosie — ^Tan- 
nic never  leave  Rosie,"  she  clasped  her  to  her  breast  in  a 
passion  of  tenderness,  which  was  only  checked  by  Rosie's 
distressed  discovery  of  "Tannic  tying." 

Of  course  Tannic  immediately  dried  her  eyes,  and  cried 
no  more — in  the  child's  sight,  at  any  rate. 

Nor  in  any  body's  sight,  for  she  was  one  of  those  who 
find  it  not  only  best  but  easiest,  to  "  die  and  make  no  sign." 
Uncovering  her  wounds  would  only  have  made  them  bleed 
the  more.  Besides,  what  good  would  it  have  done  ?  What 
help  could  come  ?  Unless  the  law  was  altered,  the  only 
possibility  of  marriage  for  her  and  Bernard  lay  in  that 
course  which  Madame  Arthenay  had  suggested,  and  which 
he,  with  his  strong  English  feeling,  and  the  intensity  of  all 
his  home  affections  and  associations,  had  at  once  set  aside 
as  "impossible;"  and,  knowing  him  as  she  did,  Hannah 


HANNAH.  283 

agreed  that  it  was  impossible.  But  she  would  not  have 
him  judged  or  criticised  by  others  who  knew  him  less  than 
she.  If  there  was  one  little  sore  place  in  her  heart,  she 
would  plaster  it  over — hide  it  until  it  was  healed. 

Therefore,  when  Madame  Arthenay  came  as  usual,  she 
delivered,  in  carefully-planned  phrases,  the  message  Sir  Ber- 
nard had  left;  and  though  the  good  old  lady  looked  sur- 
prised, and  evidently  guessed  —  no  woman  with  common 
womanly  penetration  could  help  guessing — that  something 
painful  had  happened ;  still,  as  Hannah  said  nothing,  she 
inquired  nothing,  but  gave,  with  a  tact  and  delicacy  that 
won  her  new  friend's  love  for  her  whole  future  life,  the  best 
sympathy  that  even  old  friends  can  give  sometimes — the 
sympathy  of  silence. 

They  fell  back  into  their  old  ways,  and  after  a  few  days, 
this  brief,  bright  visit  of  Sir  Bernard's  might  never  have 
been,  so  completely  did  it  cease  to  be  spoken  of.  Some- 
times, in  the  midst  of  her  innocent  play,  little  Rosie  would 
make  a  passing  reference  to  "  papa,"  which  Aunt  Hannah 
answered  with  a  heart  that  first  leaped  wildly,  and  then 
sank  down,  aching  with  a  dull,  continual  pain.  Evident- 
ly, not  even  for  his  child's  sake  would  Sir  Bernard  write 
to  her  or  have  any  thing  to  do  with  her.  He  had  pushed 
out  of  his  new  and  prosperous  life  not  only  her,  but  poor 
Rosie,  whom  he  had  left  without  asking  for  one  good- 
by  kiss.  Even  the  father  in  him  was  destroyed  by  his 
wretched  position  with  regard  to  herself,  and  would  be 
more  and  more  so  as  time  went  on.  Perhaps  it  was  bet- 
ter, even  for  that,  that  the  end  had  come — that  there  could 
be  no  doubt  as  to  their  future  relations  any  more. 

She  thought  so — she  forced  herself  to  think  so — when  at 
last  the  long-expected  letter  arrived.  It  was  very  brief; 
and  he  used  to  write  whole  sheets  to  her  every  week! 
And  upon  its  courteously  formal  tone  could  be  put  but 
one  interpretation. 

"  My  dear  Hannah, — I  send  the  usual  monthly  check 
doubled,  that  you  and  my  daughter  may  have  every  lux- 


284  HANNAH. 

ury  that  Avranches  affords,  and  which,  indeed,  my  new 
circumstances  make  desirable  and  necessary. 

"  If  you  do  not  dislike  the  place,  I  should  like  you  to 
winter  there ;  and,  with  the  friendship  and  protection  of 
good  Madame  Arthenay,  to  try  and  make  it  your  home — 
as  much  home  as  you  can. 

"  I  will  say  no  more  at  present,  being  fully  occupied 
with  family  affairs,  and  with  others  which  time  will  dis- 
close, but  of  which  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  till  they  are 
more  matured.  In  the  mean  time  I  remain  always  your 
sincere  friend,  Beenakd  Rivers." 

That  was  all.  No  anger,  no  reproaches,  no  love.  No, 
not  a  particle — of  either  lover's  love  or  brother's  love — of 
all  that  she  had  become  so  used  to,  gradually  growing  and 
growing,  that  how  she  should  live  on  without  it  she  did 
not  know.  Kind  he  was,  kind  and  thoughtful  still  —  it 
was  his  nature,  he  could  not  be  otherwise — but  all  per- 
sonal feeling  seemed  obliterated.  It  often  happens  so 
with  men — at  least  Hannah  had  heard  of  such  things — 
when  thwarted  passion  suddenly  cools  down,  like  red-hot 
iron  under  a  stream  of  water,  and  hardens  into  something 
totally  unlike  its  old  self,  the  impress  of  which  it  ever  af- 
ter retains.  This  is  the  only  way  of  accounting  for  many 
things  —  especially  for  one  thing  which  women  can  not 
understand  —  that  sudden  marriage  after  a  disappointed 
love,  which  is  so  common  and  so  fatal. 

Evidently  he  could  not  forgive  her;  could  not  restore 
her  to  even  her  old  sisterly  place  with  him.  He  had 
dropped  her  as  completely  out  of  his  life  as  a  weed  out 
of  his  garden,  now  only  an  incumbrance  and  a  reproach. 

Well,  so  it  must  be.  Hannah  wondered  how  she  ever 
could  have  expected  any  thing  else.  She  felt  just  a  little 
sorry  for  herself — in  a  vague,  abstract  way — and  fancied 
other  people  might  be  too,  if  they  knew  it  all.  Madame 
Arthenay,  unto  whom — to  save  all  explanations — she  gave 
Sir  Bernard's  letter  (alas,  all  the  world  might  have  read 
it !) — Lady  Dunsmore,  whose  coiTespondence  was  as  regu- 


HANNAH.  285 

lar  and  affectionate  as  ever,  but  who  now  never  mentioned 
the  name  of  Rivers ;  and,  lastly,  poor  faithful  Grace,  who 
followed  her  mistress  with  yearning  eyes,  doing  every 
thing  that  humble  devotion  could  do  to  give  her  pleasure 
or  to  save  her  pain,  but  never  saying  one  single  word. 
These  two  Pariahs  of  society — as  Hannah  sometimes  in 
her  heart  bitterly  called  herself  and  her  servant — clung  to 
one  another  with  a  silent  trust  which  was  a  comfort  to 
both. 

But  their  greatest  comfort  was  the  child.  Rosie  flour- 
ished like  a  flower.  Every  day  in  her  young  life  brought 
some  new  and  wonderful  development.  That  miraculous 
study  of  a  growing  human  soul  lay  patent  before  Hannah 
every  day,  soothing,  calming,  and  interesting  her,  till  some- 
times she  became  almost  reconciled  to  her  pain.  It  was 
not  the  sharp  agony  of  youth — she  was  accustomed  to 
sorrow — but  this  sorrow  had  come  too  late  to  be  cured. 
She  knew  it  would  not  kill  her;  but  she  also  knew  that  it 
would  last  her  life.  She  had  been  a  long  time  in  loving 
Bernard ;  but  now  that  she  did  love  him,  it  was  with  a 
depth  and  intensity  which  those  only  know  to  whom  love 
is  the  last  remnant  of  that  dolce  primavera — that  sweet 
heart-spring  time — after  which  nothing  can  be  looked  for 
but  winter  and  old  age. 

She  wondered  how  her  years  would  pass  —  the  years 
which  would  make  little  Rosie  into  a  woman.  And  she 
wondered  very  much  about  the  child,  how  she  should  be 
educated,  and  where.  Sir  Bernard  only  spoke  of  their 
wintering  at  Avranches — having  no  farther  plans  for  Ro- 
sie's  future ;  nor  had  he  ever  had  any  that  Hannah  knew 
of  He  had  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  they  three 
— she,  himself,  and  the  child — would  always  be  together, 
and  that  there  was  no  need  to  decide  any  thing.  In  what 
manner  he  might  wish  his  daughter — an  important  per- 
sonage now,  as  Miss  Rivers  of  the  Moat  House — to  be 
brought  up,  Hannah  had  not  the  slightest  idea. 

However,  one  day,  when  they  were  driving  through  this 
smiling  Norman  country,  where  the  long  lines  of  poplars 


286  HANNAH. 

had  not  yet  dropped  a  single  leaf,  and  the  quaint  old  trees 
of  the  endless  apple-orchards  stood  each  with  a  glowing 
heap  of  dropped  fruit  round  its  feet,  making  Rosie  clap 
her  hands  in  delight,  the  little  woman  herself  settled  that 
question. 

"  Lots  of  apples !  Rosie  likes  apples.  Rosie  stay  here 
always,  and  get  lots  of  apples." 

A  sentence  which  startled  Hannah  into  deeper  and  more 
anxious  thought  than  she  had  yet  expended  on  her  child's 
future.  Truly  her  child's ;  she  had  now  none  of  her  own. 
She  never  for  a  moment  deceived  herself  that  to  her  hap- 
piness would  ever  come — that  happiness  which  had  fled 
from  her  all  her  life  like  a  beautiful  mirage.  Only,  by  the 
mercy  of  God,  she  had  been  made  —  as  she  sometimes 
thought,  with  that  bitter  laugh  that  is  akin  to  tears — a 
rugged  old  camel,  who  could  bear  endless  burdens,  endure 
weariness  and  hunger  and  thirst.  The  desert  would  be 
crossed  some  day,  and  she  should  lie  down  and  rest. 

But,  in  the  mean  time,  would  it  be  good  for  Rosie  to  re- 
main in  France,  ignorant  of  her  English  ties  — -  ignorant, 
above  all,  of  her  father,  whom  already,  with  the  easy  for- 
getfulness  of  her  age,  she  seldom  spoke  about?  What 
seemed  at  first  a  relief  became  to  Hannah  by-and-by  a 
serious  care. 

Would  she  be  quite  right  in  binding  Sir  Bernard  to  the 
promise — which  she  knew  he  himself  would  never  break 
— that  Rosie  should  be  with  her  always  ?  In  the  years  to 
come,  might  not  this  deprive  both  father  and  daughter  of 
the  greatest  blessing  of  their  lives  ? 

Hannah  remembered — in  the  utter  blotting  out  of  hope 
it  was  now  doubly  sweet  to  remember — how  tenderly  she 
had  loved  her  own  father;  how  after  her  mother's  death 
Bhe  had  been  his  constant  companion  and  friend,  with  a 
tie  so  close  that  even  his  disapproval  of  the  attachment 
between  her  and  Arthur  could  not  break  it.  This  tie — 
the  love  between  father  and  eldest  daughter — Rosie  would 
in  all  human  probability  never  know. 

Then,  too,  around  Bernard,  so  young  a  man  still,  would 


HANNAH.  287 

soon  spring  up  not  only  new  interests,  but  new  ties.  She 
tried  to  fancy  him  Sir  Bernard  Rivers,  master  of  the  Moat 
House — and  what  a  noble  master  he  would  make ! — be- 
loved by  all  the  country-side,  bringing  to  it  in  due  time  a 
new  Lady  Rivers,  fair  and  sweet  as  his  first  wife  had  been, 
and  perhaps  raising  up  in  honor  and  happiness  a  numer- 
ous family — Rosie's  brothers  and  sisters — to  whom  poor 
Rosie  would  be  even  less  than  she  was  to  her  father — a 
stranger,  an  interloper,  unto  whom  the  dear  associations  of 
kindred  blood  were  only  a  name. 

Forecasting  all  this,  seeing  it  with  a  cruelly  clear  pre- 
vision, as  the  inevitable  result  of  things,  Hannah,  even 
while  she  clasped  her  darling  to  her  bosom,  sometimes 
doubted  whether  hers  were  not  a  fatal  love,  which  might 
one  day  overcloud,  instead  of  brightening,  the  future  of 
this  her  "  sunshiny  child." 

"  I  may  have  to  do  it  some  time,"  she  said  to  herself, 
not  daring  even  in  thought  to  particularize  what  "it" 
meant.  "  But  I  can't  do  it  yet — not  yet.  My  one  bless- 
ing— the  only  bit  of  blessedness  left  me  in  this  world  !" 

And  night  after  night,  when  she  lay  listening  to  the 
soft  breathing,  thanking  God  that  her  treasure  was  still 
hers,  close  beside  her,  looking  to  her,  and  her  alone,  for  the 
providing  of  every  pleasure,  the  defense  from  every  ill  that 
the  innocent  young  life  could  know,  Hannah  wetted  her 
pillow  w^ith  her  tears. 

"I  can  not  do  it;  even  if  I  ought,  I  can  not,"  she 
moaned;  and  then  let  the  struggle  cease.  She  was  not 
strong  enough  to  struggle  now.  She  rather  let  herself 
drift,  without  oar  or  sail,  just  where  the  waters  carried 
her.  Bitter  waters  they  were,  but  she  knew  they  were 
carrying  her  slowly  and  surely  home. 

In  this  dreamy  state  she  remained  during  the  whole  of 
the  brief,  bright  lull  of  the  St.  Martin's  summer,  which 
lasted  longer  than  usual  in  Normandy  this  year,  busying 
herself  chiefly  in  planning  pleasures  for  the  two  on  whom 
life's  burdens  had  either  not  yet  fallen,  or  were  near  be- 
ing laid  down — the  old  lady  and  the  child.     With  them, 


288  HANNAH. 

and  Grace,  she  wandered  every  where  near  Avranches, 
and  made  herself  familiar  with  every  nook  of  this  pleasant 
country,  which  Bernard  in  his  letter  had  suggested  she 
should  try  to  substitute  for  "  home."  Well,  what  did  it 
matter?  It  was  little  consequence  where  she  and  Rosie 
lived,  so  that  they  were  far  away  from  him.  This  must 
have  been  what  he  meant,  and  she  accepted  it  as  such. 

With  her  usual  habit  of  what  he  had  sometimes  called 
"  horrid  resignation,"  she  had  almost  grown  fond  of  the 
place,  and  even,  in  a  sense,  was  happy  in  it,  when  one  day 
there  arose  upon  the  strange,  stupor-like  peace  of  her  dai- 
ly life  one  of  those  sudden  blasts  of  fate — like  the  equi- 
noctial wind  in  which  the  St.  Martin's  summer  ended — a 
storm  noted  in  this  neighborhood  for  years  by  the  destruc- 
tion which  it  had  spread.  Hannah  never  heard  it  spoken 
of  afterward  without  recalling  that  particular  day,  and  all 
that  happened  thereon. 

The  hurricane  had  lasted  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  was 
still  unabated,  when,  restless  with  staying  in-doors,  she 
went  out — alone,  of  course — which  was  unusual ;  but  any 
danger  there  might  be  must  not  happen  to  the  child.  For 
herself,  she  used  once  rather  to  enjoy  danger,  to  exult  in 
a  high  wind,  as  being  something  to  fight  against ;  but 
now,  when  she  passed  out  of  the  town,  and  saw  the  deso- 
lation that  a  few  hours  had  made — tall  poplars,  snapped 
like  straws,  lying  prone  at  the  roadside ;  apple-orchards, 
in  which  there  was  scarcely  a  tree  not  mutilated,  and  many 
were  torn  up  completely  by  the  roots — she  ceased  to  de- 
light in  the  storm.  She  battled  with  it,  however,  as  long 
as  she  could,  though  it  was  almost  like  beating  against  a 
stone  wall ;  and  then,  unable  to  fight  more,  she  sank,  ex- 
hausted, in  the  first  sheltered  corner  she  could  find. 

"  How  weak  I  must  be  growing !"  said  poor  Hannah  to 
herself;  and,  catching  sight  of  her  favorite  Mont  St.  Mi- 
chel, the  solitary  rock,  with  its  castled  crown,  looking  sea- 
ward over  its  long  stretch  of  sandy  bay,  the  tears  sprang  to 
her  eyes.  Alas!  there  was  no  St.  Michael  to  fight  for  her 
—no  strong  archangel  ^to  unsheathe  his  glittering  sword 


HANNAH.  289 

in  defense  of  right  or  in  destruction  of  wrong.  She  was  a 
lonely  woman,  with  not  a  creature  to  defend  her — neither 
father,  brother,  husband,  nor  lover.  Also,  she  was  power- 
less to  defend  herself;  she  knew — she  felt — that  her  fight- 
ing days  were  all  gone.  That  ghostly  gleam  of  love  and 
hope  which  had  brightened  her  life,  had  passed  away  even 
like  this  St.  Martin's  summer,  in  storm  and  tempest,  and 
w^ould  never  come  back  any  more. 

Tired — so  tired  that  she  could  scarcely  crawl — Hannah 
retraced  her  steps,  hastening  them  a  little,  as  she  found  it 
was  near  post-time,  and  then  smiling  sadly  at  herself  for 
so  doing.  What  could  the  post  bring  her  ?  Nothing,  of 
course.  Her  last  letter  to  Sir  Bernard,  a  mere  imitation 
of  his  own,  acknowledging  his  money — which  she  had  no 
conscience-stings  about  taking,  for  she  spent  it  all  upon 
Rosie — and  agreeing  to  his  proposal  of  their  wintering  at 
Avranches,  had  remained  now  three  weeks  unanswered. 
Better  so,  perhaps.  Total  silence  was  far  less  painful  than 
such  a  correspondence. 

There  was  one  English  letter — for  Grace — which,  as  it 
bore  the  Easterham  post  -  mark,  she  took  to  her  herself, 
and  lingered  half  involuntarily  while  it  was  opened  and 
read. 

"  No  bad  news,  I  trust  ?" — for  Grace  had  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation, and  seemed  a  good  deal  disturbed.  "  No  harm 
^happened  to — to  any  one  belonging  to  you  ?" 

For  though  Grace  now  seldom  mentioned  Jem  Dixon^s 
name,  they  both  knew  that  he  was  still  at  Easterham, 
slowly  drinking  himself  to  death — partly,  he  declared,  be- 
cause since  Grace  left  him  he  had  such  a  wretched  home. 
Continually,  there  was  the  chance  of  hearing  that  he  had 
come  to  some  ill  end,  and  Hannah  was  uncertain  how 
much  Grace  might  feel  it,  or  whether,  in  that  case,  she 
would  not  desire  to  go  back  at  once  to  her  sister's  chil- 
dren, for  whom  she  had  had  so  strong  an  affection. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  she  said,  looking  at  Miss  Thelluson  half 
inquisitively,  half  compassionately,  "it's  no  harm,  so  to 
speak,  come  to  any  body.     It's  only  a  Avedding  that  they 

N 


290  HANNAH. 

tell  me  of— a  wedding  I  didn't  expect ;  and  I'm  very  sorry 
for  it.'* 

"  Of  some  friend  or  relation  of  yours — and  you  don't 
quite  like  it,  I  see  ?  Never  mind ;  it  may  turn  out  better 
than  you  think :  marriages  sometimes  do,  I  suppose." 

A  commonplace,  absently-uttered  sentiment;  but  Han- 
nah was  often  very  absent  now.  Life  and  its  interests 
seemed  fading  daily  from  her,  as  from  people  who  are  go- 
ing to  die,  and  from  whom,  mercifully  perhaps,  all  the  out- 
er world  gradually  recedes,  growing  indistinct  and  color- 
less, as  at  twilight-time ;  but  also  calm — very  calm.  She 
could  not  rouse  herself  even  into  her  old  quick  sympathy 
with  other  people's  troubles,  though  she  saw  that  Grace 
was  very  much  troubled  about  this  letter,  and  continued 
so  all  day.  Once  upon  a  time  the  kind  mistress  would 
have  questioned  her  about  it,  but  now  she  took  no  notice, 
not  till  the  two  were  together  in  the  nursery,  sharing  the 
little  bit  of  innocent  fun  with  which  Rosie  always  con- 
cluded their  day.  For  Rosie  was  the  drollest  little  wom- 
an at  her  bed-time,  playing  such  antics  in  her  bath,  and 
carrying  on  the  most  amusing  conversation  while  she 
ate  her  supper,  that  neither  aunt  nor  nurse  could  forbear 
laughing.  But  to-night  it  was  different,  and  the  sharp  lit- 
tle eyes  soon  detected  that. 

"Look,  Tannic,"  she  whispered  mysteriously,  "Dacie 
'tying.     Dacie  hurt  herself,  p'raps.     Poor  Dacie  'tying." 

And  in  truth  Grace,  who  stood  behind  her  mistress  and 
the  child,  had  just  wiped  her  eyes  upon  the  towel  she  held. 

"No;  I  haven't  hurt  myself,  and  it  isn't  myself  I'm  cry- 
ing for.     Never  mind  me.  Miss  Rosie." 

"But  we  do  mind,  don't  we?"  and  Miss  Thelluson  put 
her  hand  kindly  on  the  nurse's  shoulder  as  she  knelt. 
"  You  shall  tell  me  all  about  it  presently.  In  the  mean 
time,  don't  vex  yourself  more  than  you  can  help.  Noth- 
ing in  life  is  worth  grieving  for  very  much — at  least,  I  oft- 
en think  so."  And  Hannah  sighed.  "  We  have  but  to  do 
our  duty,  and  be  as  content  as  we  can.  Every  thing  is 
passing  away — soon  passing  away." 


HANNAH.  291 

Grace's  tears  fell  only  the  faster,  "It  isn't  myself, 
ma'am— oh,  please  don't  think  that !  I  am  not  unhappy 
now.  You  are  so  kind  to  me,  and  then  I  have  Miss  Rosie ; 
but  what  vexes  me  is  this  wedding  I've  heard  about,  and 
how  people  will  take  it,  and — " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  it  will  all  come  right  soon,"  said  Han- 
nah, listlessly,  rocking  her  little  one  in  her  arms,  and  feel- 
ing that  love  and  lovers  and  weddings  were  things  belong- 
ing to  a  phase  of  existence  as  far  back  as  the  world  be- 
fore the  flood.  "  Who  may  the  people  be  ?  Any  body  I 
know  ?" 

Grace  stopped  a  minute  before  she  answered,  and  then 
said,  dropping  her  eyes,  "  Is  it  possible,  ma'am,  that  you 
don't  know?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?" 

"  I  thought — I  have  been  thinking  all  day — surely  he 
must  have  told  you." 

"Who  told  me?" 

"  Master — Sir  Bernard.  It's  his  wedding  that  my  sister 
tells  me  about.     Oh  dear !  oh  dear !" 

All  the  blood  in  Hannah's  heart  stood  still.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  unmistakable  meaning  of  Grace's  sorrow,  and 
the  necessity  of  self-command  that  it  enforced,  she  might 
have  fainted ;  but  her  strong  will  conquered.  She  did  not 
"  give  way,"  as  women  call  it,  by  any  outward  sign. 

"Is  Sir  Bernard  married?  There  must  be  some  mis- 
take.    He  would,  as  you  say,  certainly  have  told  me." 

"  Ko ;  I  didn't  mean  that  he  was  exactly  married,  but 
that  he  is  going  to  be.  All  the  village  says  it.  And  to 
the  last  person  I'd  ever  have  thought  he  would  marry — 
Miss  Alice  Melville." 

"  Hush !"  said  Hannah,  glancing  at  the  child ;  for  Rosie, 
already  growing  a  dangerous  little  person  to  speak  before, 
was  listening  with  all  her  eyes  and  ears.  Happily,  in  the 
silence  into  which  his  name  had  fallen,  she  had  not  yet 
learned  to  identify  "papa"  with  " Sir  Bernard,"  so  that  as 
soon  as  she  had  got  over  her  natural  indignation  at  seeing 
aunt  and  nurse  speaking  of  something  which  did  not  in- 


292  HANNAH. 

elude  her,  who  at  this  hour  especially  was  always  their 
sole  object  of  attention,  she  curled  sleepily  down  in  Tan- 
nie's  arms,  a  round  little  ball,  with  the  pink  toes  sticking 
out  from  under  the  white  night-gown — begging  earnestly 
for  " '  Four-and-twenty  blackbirds  baked  in  a  pie,'  just  ' 
once,  once  more." 

And  Hannah  sang  it  without  a  mistake,  which  the  small 
listener  would  have  detected  immediately  —  without  a 
break  in  her  voice  either.  For  Grace  also  was  listening 
— Grace,  who  might  go  back  to  Easterham  any  day,  and 
tell  Easterham  any  thing.  Not  that  she  thought  Grace 
would,  but  she  might.  And  now,  above  all,  whatever 
Easterham  guessed,  it  must  never  be  given  the  slightest 
certainty  that  Sir  Bernard  had  ever  been  aught  to  her  ex- 
cept a  brother-in-law. 

Therefore  Hannah  laid  Rosie  peacefully  in  her  crib, 
going  through  all  the  little  ceremonies  of  tucking  in  and 
smoothing  down,  the  "  one,  one  more  'ittle  song,"  and  the 
"  two  tisses,"  which  had  been  their  mutual  nightly  delight 
for  so  long.  Then  she  left  her  darling  happy  and  at  rest, 
and  walked  slowly  down  stairs,  Grace  following.  Thank- 
fully would  she  have  fled  away,  and  hidden  herself  any 
where  out  of  sight,  but  this  could  not  be.  So  she  looked 
steadily  in  her  servant's  face. 

"  Now  tell  me  all  about  this  report  concerning  Sir  Ber- 
nard." 

It  was  a  very  natural  and  probable  one,  as  reports  go, 
and  seeip.ed  to  have  been  generally  accepted  at  Easter- 
ham. The  two  were  continually  seen  together  at  the 
Grange  and  the  Moat  House,  and  it  was  said  they  only 
waited  for  their  mutual  mourning  to  end,  in  order  to  ^x 
their  wedding-day.  More  especially  as,  many  years  ago, 
when  they  were  mere  boy  and  girl,  they  were  supposed 
to  have  been  fond  of  one  another. 

"  She  was  fond  of  him,  at  any  rate,"  Grace  declared. 
"  We  servants  all  thought  so  when  I  lived  at  the  Grange. 
She  was  a  nice,  pretty  young  lady,  too.  But  she  isn't 
young  now,  of  course;   not  x^retty   cither;   only  she  is 


HANNAH.  293 

very,  very  good — capital  about  parish  things,  and  so  on  ; 
and  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world  to  poor  folks's  chil- 
dren. She  was  so  kind  to  mine,"  added  Grace,  with  a 
sob. 

Hannah  again  laid  her  hands  soothingly  oh  her  servant's 
shoulder,  but  with  a  strangely  absent  look. 

"  Not  young — not  pretty — only  very  good.  She  would 
make  a  good  wife  to  him,  no  doubt." 

"  Yes,"  said  Grace,  hesitating.  "  Only — who'd  ever  have 
thought  of  master's  wanting  her  ?  I  didn't,  I'm  sure.  Why, 
nice  as  she  is,  she  isn't  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to — " 

Hannah  stopped  her,  terrified.  "  Hush,  you  forget  your- 
self. *Sir  Bernard's  servant  has  no  right  to  discuss  his  fu- 
ture wife.  You  will  displease  me  exceedingly  if  you  say 
another  word  on  the  subject." 

Had  there  been  the  slightest  betrayal  on  Hannah's  part, 
the  poor  nurse's  heart  would  have  overflowed.  As  it  was, 
she  was  simply  bewildered. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Thelluson.  Us  poor  servants 
have  no  right,  I  suppose,  to  be  sorry  for  our  betters.  But 
I  was  sorry  many  a  time,  because  I  thought — " 

"  Think  nothing  at  all,  say  nothing  at  all,  either  to  me 
or  to  any  one.  My  sister  has  been  dead  three  years ;  her 
husband  is  at  perfect  liberty  to  marry  again  as  soon  as 
he  chooses.  And  he  could  hardly  marry  a  better  person 
than  Miss  Melville.     I  am — very  glad." 

"Are  you  ?"  said  Grace,  looking  at  her  very  earnestly. 
And  then  Hannah,  driven  to  bay,  and  feeling  the  fierce 
necessity  of  the  moment,  looked  back  at  Grace  and,  al- 
most for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  acted  a  lie. 

"  Certainly.  Why  should  I  not  be  glad  of  my  brother- 
in-law's  marriage  ?" 

There  was  no  answer,  of  course.  Grace,  completely 
puzzled,  ventured  no  more;  but  putting  the  letter  in 
her  pocket,  begged  pardon  once  again,  and,  sighing,  went 
away. 

So  far,  then,  Hannah  was  safe.  She  had  borne  the  blow, 
nor  allowed  her  servant  to  suspect  what  a  death-blow  it 


294  HANNAH. 

was ;  nay,  she  had  even  succeeded  in  concealing  the  fact 
that  it  had  come  upon  her  unawares.  Poor  innocent  hyp- 
ocrite !  the  lessons  taught  by  the  last  bitter  year  and  a 
half  had  not  been  lost  upon  her.  But  when  Grace  was 
gone  she  sat  utterly  paralyzed. 

Over  and  over  again  she  had  repeated  to  herself  that 
all  was  at  an  end  between  her  and  Bernard ;  but  she  had 
never  contemplated  such  an  end  as  this.  So  sudden,  too 
— scarcely  six  weeks  from  the  time  she  had  parted  from 
him — when  he  had  been  her  ardent,  despairing,  desperate 
lover ;  furious  because  she  would  not  sacrifice  every  thing 
for  him,  as  he  said  he  was  ready  to  do  for  her.  And  now 
he  was  quite  ready  to  marry  another  woman.  Could  it 
be  true  ?    Was  it  probable — possible  ? 

Something  in  Hannah's  secret  heart  whispered  that  it 
was ;  that  his  impulsiveness  of  temperament,  his  extreme 
jviTectionateness  and  corresponding  need  of  afiection,  made 
a  hasty  marriage  like  this,  to  one  whom  he  knew  well, 
and  who  had  always  been  fond  of  him,  not  incomprehen- 
sible even  to  her.     And  yet — and  yet — 

"He  might  have  waited — just  a  little  while;  have 
mourned  for  me  just  for  a  few  weeks — a  few  months — as 
he  did  for  my  poor  Rosa." 

And  her  tears  dropped  fast — ^^fast;  not  the  scalding 
tears  of  youth,  but  very  bitter  tears,  nevertheless.  She 
had  loved  him  so  well,  had  endured  so  much  for  him,  had 
had  such  a  bright  dream  of  what  she  was  to  him.  Could 
it  have  been  only  a  dream  ?  Would  any  other  woman  be 
just  as  dear  to  him  as  she?  And  though  she  did  not 
faint,  or  shriek,  or  moan,  or  do  any  of  those  desperate 
things  which  tragic  heroines  are  supposed  to  indulge  in 
upon  hearing  of  the  marriage  of  their  lovers ;  though  she 
went  to  bed  and  slept,  and  rose  next  morning  just  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  still  Hannah  felt  that  something 
had  happened — something  which  would  make  the  world 
look  never  quite  the  same  as  it  looked  yesterday. 

That  yesterday  was  the  last  day  she  crossed  the  thresh- 
old for  two  whole  weeks.    The  doctor  said  she  ought  not 


HANNAH.  295 

to  have  gone  out  in  the  high  wind ;  that,  out  of  health  as 
she  was  before,  it  had  caught  her  in  some  way,  affected  her 
breathing,  smitten  her  at  her  heart.  At  which  Miss  Thel- 
lusoii  smiled.     She  knew  she  was  "smitten  to  the  heart." 

But  it  was  very  convenient — this  illness.  It  saved  her 
from  all  need  of  physical  exertion,  even  of  talking.  She 
could  just  turn  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  lie  quiet,  and  do 
nothing.  She  felt  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  not  the 
slightest  inclination  to  do  any  thing.  Even  w^hen  she  rose 
from  her  bed  the  same  incapacity  continued,  till  sometimes 
Rosie's  innocent  prattle  was  almost  too  much  for  her,  and 
she  felt  herself  turning  sick  and  faint,  and  saw,  with  a 
dread  indescribable,  Madame  Arthenay  or  Grace  carry  the 
child  away  from  her,  and  keep  her  out  of  her  sight  for 
hours  at  a  time. 

"What  if,  by-and-by,  this  were  to  be  constantly  the  case  ? 
What  if  this  condition  of  hers  was  the  forerunner  of  long 
and  serious  illness — perhaps  the  consumption  which  was 
said  to  be  in  the  family,  though  in  this  generation  her 
cousin  Arthur  had  been  its  only  victim?  Suppose  she 
were  to  fall  sick  and  die  ?  She  began  to  have  a  feeling — 
was  it  sweet  or  sad  ? — that  she  could  die,  and  that  of  mere 
sorrow.     And,  then,  what  would  become  of  the  child  ? 

"  Oh,  my  Rosie,  if  ever  there  should  come  a  time  when 
you  were  left  forlorn  with  nobody  to  love  you,  when  you 
might  blame  poor  Tannic  for  having  stolen  you  and  kept 
you  away  from  all  those  who  might  have  loved  you  !  If 
ever  Tannic  should  die  !" 

"  Tannic  die  ?  What's  dat  ?  Rosie  don't  like  it !"  said 
the  little  thing  to  whom  she  had  been  talking.  She  had 
two  ways  of  talking  to  her  darling.  One  which  Rosie 
could  perfectly  comprehend:  long  conversations  about 
flowers,  and  beasts,  and  people,  and  things,  and  all  sorts  of 
subjects,  in  which  the  child's  intelligence  was  receptive  to 
a  degree  that  sometimes  utterly  amazed  the  grown  woman. 
The  other  was  a  trick  she  had  of  speaking  simply  for  her 
own  relief,  in  a  fashion  that  Rosie  could  not  comprehend 
at  all.     But,  baby  as  she  was,  she  comprehended  the  anx- 


296  HANNAH. 

ious  face,  the  tremulous  voice,  and  repeated,  with  that  pa- 
thetic droop  of  tlie  lips  that  always  foreboded  tears, "  Ro- 
sie  don't  like  it." 

Hannah  changed  her  tone  immediately.  "  Come  here, 
my  pet ;  Tannic  won't  die,  then.  She  couldn't  afford  it 
just  yet.  But  listen  a  minute.  Would  Rosie  like  to  go 
and  see  papa  ?  Be  papa's  girl  again,  and  play  about  in 
the  pretty  garden,  and  the  greenhouse,  and  the  nursery  ? 
Rosie  remembers  them  all  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  decisive  voice — Rosie  never  had 
the  slightest  doubt  in  her  own  baby  mind  about  any  thing. 
"  Rosie  will  go  and  see  papa — soon,  very  soon.  Tannic 
come  too." 

Hannah  turned  away,  and  could  not  answer  at  first. 
Then  she  said, "  But  perhaps  Tannic  might  not  come  too. 
Rosie  would  he  content  with  papa  ?" 

"No"  —  there  was  entire  decision  in  this  likewise  — 
"Rosie  not  go  to  papa  unless  Tannic  come  too.  Rosie 
don't  want  papa.     Rosie  will  stop  with  Tannic." 

And  the  little  woman,  squatting  down  on  Tannie's  pil- 
low with  an  air  of  having  quite  settled  the  whole  affair, 
turned  her  whole  undivided  attention  to  a  doll,  whose  eyes 
would  open  and  shut,  and  who  was  much  more  interesting 
to  her  than  any  papa  in  the  world. 

But  Rosie's  unconscious  words  aroused  in  her  aunt  a 
dread  that  had  once  awakened  and  been  silenced :  the  fear 
that,  as  time  went  on,  this  complete  severance  would  pro- 
duce its  natural  result ;  the  child  would  become  indiffer- 
ent to  the  father,  and  the  father  to  the  child.  For,  let 
people  talk  as  they  will  about  the  ties  of  blood,  it  is  asso- 
ciation which  really  produces  the  feeling  which  is  termed 
"  natural  affection."  Deprived  of  this,  and  then  deprived 
of  herself,  Rosie  might  in  a  few  years  be  left  as  lonely  a 
creature,  save  for  money,  as  her  aunt  Hannah  once  had 
been — ay,  and  was  now,  save  for  this  one  darling,  the  sole 
treasure  saved  out  of  her  wrecked  life.  But  was  it  law- 
fully and  righteously  hers? 

There  is  a  story,  I  believe  a  true  one — most  women  will 


HANNAH.  297 

feel  that  it  might  have  been  true — of  a  Highland  mother, 
who,  traveling  from  one  glen  to  another,  was  caught  in  a 
snow-storm,  and  lost  for  twenty-four  hours.  When  found 
— that  is,  her  body  was  found — she  had  stripped  off  every 
thing  but  her  shift  to  cover  the  child.  It  was  alive  still, 
just  alive ;  but  the  mother,  of  course,  was  dead. 

Hannah  Thelluson,  as  she  lay  awake  all  through  this 
night,  the  first  night  that  they  brought  back  Rosie's  crib 
to  its  old  place  by  her  bedside — for  she  insisted  she  could 
sleep  better  if  they  did  so — was  not  unlike  that  poor  High- 
land woman. 

^N'ext  morning  she  said,  in  a  quiet,  almost  cheerful  tone, 
"  Grace,  do  you  think  you  could  pack  up  all  our  things  in  . 
a  day  ?    For  I  want,  if  possible,  to  go  back  to  England  to- 
morrow." 

"  Go  back  to  England !" 

"  Yes.  What  do  you  say  to  that,  Rosie  ?"  fixing  her 
eyes  on  the  child's  face ;  and  then,  as  a  sudden  gush  blind- 
ed them,  turning  away,  and  contenting  herself  with  feeling 
the  soft  cheeks  and  the  rings  of  silky  hair — as  that  High- 
land mother  might  have  done  when  the  death-mists  were 
gathering  over  her  eyes.  "Will  Rosie  go  back  and  see 
papa,  and  be  papa's  own  little  girl  again  ?  Papa  will  be 
so  fond  of  her." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  little  oracle,  and  immediately  proved 
her  recollection  of  her  father  and  her  lively  appreciation 
of  his  paternal  duties  by  breaking  her  doll's  head  against 
the  bed-post,  and  then  saying  in  a  satisfied  tone,  "  Never 
mind.  All  right.  Rosie  take  dolly  to  papa.  Papa  will 
mend  it !" 

In  a  week  from  that  time,  traveling  as  fast  as  her 
strength  allowed,  yet  haunted  by  a  vague  dread  that  it 
would  not  last  her  till  she  reached  England,  Hannah  ar- 
rived in  London. 

Only  in  London,  at  a  hotel;  for  she  had  no  house  to  go 
to— no  friend.  Lady  Dunsmore  happened  to  be  at  a  coun- 
try seat ;  but,  even  if  not,  it  would  have  been  all  the  same. 
What  she  had  to  do  no  one  could  help  her  in  —  no  one 

N2 


298  HANNAH. 

could  advise  her  upon  ;  it  must  be  solely  between  herself 
and  Bernard.  And  the  sooner  it  was  done  the  better. 
She  felt  this  more  and  more  every  hour.  The  struggle 
was  growing  frightful. 

"I  was  right,"  she  said  to  herself,  when,  as  soon  as  the 
need  for  exertion  was  over,  she  sank,  utterly  exhausted, 
and  was  obliged  to  leave  to  Grace  the  whole  charge  of 
every  thing,  including  the  child,  and  lie,  listening  to  the 
roll  of  endless  wheels  below  the  hotel-window — as  cease- 
less as  the  roar  of  the  sea,  and  as  melancholy — "  I  was 
quite  right !  It  is  best  to  resign  every  thing.  I  can  not 
trust  myself  any  more." 

The  first  minute  that  her  hands  ceased  from  shaking, 
she  wrote  the  decisive  letter. 

"Dear  Feiend"  (she  first  put  " Bernard," then  "broth- 
er," finally  "  friend."  He  was  that  still ;  at  least  she  had 
never  given  him  cause  to  be  the  contrary), — "I  have, 
against  your  wish,  returned  to  England,  though  only  for  a 
few  days'  stay,  in  consequence  of  having  accidentally  dis- 
covered the  matter  to  which  I  suppose  your  last  letter  re- 
ferred ;  though,  as  you  have  never  plainly  told  me,  I  will 
not  refer  to  it  here.  But  I  think  it  ought  to  modify  our 
future  arrangements,  which  I  should  like  to  talk  over  with 
you.  If  you  will  come  and  see  me  here,  me  and  Rosie, 
half  an  hour  would,  I  think,  suffice  to  decide  all,  and  I 
could  go  back  to  France  at  once. 

"  I  remain,  with  every  wish  for  your  happiness  in  your 
new  life,  your  affectionate  friend, 

"  Hannah  Thelluson." 

After  that  she  had  nothing  more  to  do  but  to  wait,  and 
watch  day  darken  into  night,  and  night  brighten  back 
into  day — the  dreary  London  day,  all  loneliness  and  noise 
— till  Sir  Bernard  came. 

He  came  earlier  than  she  could  have  believed  it  possi- 
ble. He  must  at  once  have  taken  a  night  train  from  East- 
^rham,  which  he  owned  he  had ;  but,  though  he  looked 


HANNAH.  299 

very  tired,  he  was  neither  so  agitated  nor  so  confused  as 
he  might  naturally  have  been  under  the  circumstances. 

"Why  in  the  world  did  you  take  such  a  journey,  Han- 
nah?" was  all  he  said,  on  entering ;  then,  perceiving  Grace 
and  the  child,  he  stepped  back,  and  caught  his  little 
daughter  in  his  arms. 

"  My  pretty  one !  Run  away,  nurse,  and  leave  her  to 
me.  I  want  to  have  her  all  to  myself.  What,  Rosie ! 
Has  she  forgotten  papa!  Two  tisses!  —  lots  of  tisses! 
Papa's  darling !    Papa's  lamb !" 

Of  one  thing  Hannah  was  certain.  Sir  Bernard  was  un- 
feignedly  glad  to  see  his  child.  No  lack  of  fatherly  love, 
even  though  he  was  going  to  be  married.  It  gave  that 
poor  heart  which  he  had  forsaken  a  thrill  of  joy  to  see 
how  tenderly  he  caressed  his  little  "  lamb  " — the  mother- 
less lamb,  that  might  have  perished  but  for  her,  and  which 
her  care  had  now  nurtured  into  a  creature  that,  among 
any  number  of  children,  would  be  always  the  flower  of 
the  flock,  so  pretty  had  she  grown,  so  winning,  so  clever, 
and  withal  such  a  good  and  loving  child.  Any  father 
might  be  proud  of  Rosie.  And  as  she  clung  about  Sir  Ber- 
nard, remembering  all  his  old  tricks  with  her,  as  if  they 
had  only  parted  last  week,  the  two  seemed  perfectly  hap- 
py together,  and  even  like  one  another — with  that  strange 
family  likeness  which  comes  and  goes  in  little  faces,  but 
which  Hannah  saw  now  as  she  had  never  seen  before. 
Yes,  Rosie  was  decidedly  like  him,  and  they  would  grow 
up  to  be  a  true  father  and  daughter — one  of  the  dearest 
and  sweetest  bonds  that  human  nature  can  know. 

She  had  quite  forgotten  herself— a  trick  she  had,  poor 
Hannah !  in  watching  them,  and  speculating  upon  them 
and  their  future — when  she  felt  both  her  hands  taken,  one 
by  her  child's  soft  little  fingers,  the  other  by  the  strong 
clasp  of  a  man. 

"  Hannah,  can  you  forgive  me  ?  I  have  sometimes  feared 
you  never  would !" 

"What  for?"  ^     ^ 

"For  my  unreasoning  anger — my  frantic  love;  above 


300  HANNAH. 

all,  for  having  asked  of  you  a  sacrifice  which  no  man 
should  ask  or  accept  from  any  woman.  I  knew  this,  felt 
it,  the  instant  I  came  to  my  right  senses,  which  was  as 
soon  as  ever  you  were  out  of  sight ;  but  it  was  too  late  to 
tell  you  so.  Forgive  me.  You  will  have  no  need  to  for- 
give me  any  thing  again." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Hannah,  slowly,  and  waited  for  the 
next  words  he  would  say — words  w^hich  would  surely  be 
confirmation  of  all  she  had  heard.  So  sure  was  she  of  it, 
that  she  did  not  withdraw  her  hand ;  she  even,  seeing  that 
his  manner  was  not  agitated,  but  even  cheerful,  began  to 
think  whether  now  it  would  not  be  possible  to  go  back, 
in  degree,  to  their  old  cordial  relations ;  whether  he  could 
not  be  again  her  brother-in-law — and  Alice  Melville's  hus- 
band. Still,  something  in  her  manner-  seemed  to  startle 
him. 

"  Know  ?  What  can  you  know  ?  Not,  surely,  any  thing 
about  these  future  plans  of  mine,  which,  for  both  our  sakes, 
I  have  carried  out,  unknown  to  you,  until  now  ?" 

"Nevertheless,!  have  found  them  out,"  said  Hannah, 
with  a  faint  smile.  "  In  these  things,  you  see,  a  bird  of 
the  air  often  carries  the  matter.     I  am  aware  of  it  all." 

"  Of  it  all  ?    Who  could  have  told  you  ?    And  what  ?'' 

"  That  you  are  going  to  be  married." 

Sir  Bernard  started ;  then  half  smiled.  But  he  ofiered 
not  the  slightest  contradiction. 

Hannah,  perfectly  convinced,  conscious  of  only  one  wild 
impulse  to  get  through  what  she  had  to  say,  that  it  might 
be  all  over  and  done,  went  on  speaking. 

"  Married,  as  I  hear,  to  Alice  Melville,  which  is  a  choice 
that  must  satisfy  every  body.  That  is  the  reason  I  came 
back  to  England.  She  is  a  good  woman,  who  would  be  a 
good  mother  to  my  child.  And  I  feel  very  weak  and  ill. 
I  have  been  ill — " 

"  My  poor  Hannah  !     And  you  never  told  me  ?" 

"  Why  should  I  ?  I  only  tell  you  now  because  it  fright- 
ens me  about  Rosie's  future.  She  ought  to  have  safer 
protection  than  mine.     She  ought  to  have  a  brighter  life 


HANNAH.  301 

than  any  I  can  give  her.  So  I  came  to  say" — Hannah 
drew  her  breath  hard  and  fast — "  if  you  want  her  back,  I 
will  give  her  up — to  you  and  Alice.  Only,  first — I  must 
speak  to  Alice — must  make  her  promise — " 

Just  then  tiny  fingers  ringed  themselves  round  Hannah's 
cold  hand,  against  which  Rosie  laid  her  cheek,  in  a  caress- 
ing way  she  had.  It  was  too  much — the  strong  heart  al- 
together gave  way,  and  she  sat  down  sobbing. 

Sir  Bernard  had  listened,  quite  confounded  at  first,  then 
silently  watched  her. 

"  Oh  Hannah,  you  good,  good  woman  !"  was  all  he  said, 
and,  taking  out  of  her  arms  little  Rosie,  now  sobbing  as 
piteously  as  she,  disappeared  from  the  room  with  the  child. 

Then  it  was  really  true,  this  marriage :  he  did  not  deny 
it.  And  he  accepted  her  sacrifice  of  her  darling.  Well, 
once  made,  she  could  not  retract  it,  even  had  she  desired 
to  do  so.  But  she  did  not  desire.  She  only  wished  to  see 
Rosie  safe,  and  then  go  away  and  die.  This  once,  once 
more,  for  the  last  time  in  her  life,  she  accepted  the  inevita- 
ble.    It  was  God's  will,  and  it  must  be. 

Long  before  Sir  Bernard  came  back  she  had  dried  her 
eyes,  and  waited,  as  she  thought  she  ought  to  wait,  for  any 
thing  he  had  to  say — any  final  arrangements  they  might 
require  to  make.  There  was  a  chair  opposite,  but  he  sat 
down  beside  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Hannah,  I  want  to  speak  half  a  dozen  quiet  words  to 
you,  which  I  should  not  have  said  till  spring,  but  I  had  bet- 
ter say  them  now.  It  is  quite  true  I  am  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, and  as  soon  as  I  possibly  can.  I  am  not  fitted  for  a 
lonely  life.  Mine  will  be  worthless  to  myself,  my  fellow- 
creatures,  my  God,  unless  I  accept  the  blessing  He  offers 
me,  and  marry  the  woman  I  love.  But  that  woman  is — 
not  Alice  Melville." 

"Not  Alice  Melville!" 

"  How  could  you  ever  think  it  was  ?  She  is  very  good, 
and  we  are  fast  friends — indeed,  she  has  advised  with  me 
in  all  my  plans,  and  we  have  been  very  much  together  of 
late,  which  may  account  for  this  report.     How  could  you 


302  HANNAH. 

believe  it  ?"  and  he  smiled — his  old,  winning,  half-mischiev- 
ous smile.  "As  Rosie  would  say  —  by-the-bye,  how  she 
has  grown,  that  dear  little  girl  of  ours — *  papa  don't  like 
it.' " 

Hannah  had  borne  sorrow — but  she  could  not  bear  joy ; 
she  was  too  weak  for  it.  Her  lips  tried  to  speak,  and,  fail- 
ing that,  to  smile,  but  it  was  in  vain.  She  sank,  quite  in- 
sensible, in  Bernard's  arms. 

It  was  a  good  many  hours  before  she  was  able  to  hear 
those  "half  a  dozen  quiet  words"  which  were  to  change 
the  whole  current  of  her  life — of  both  their  lives. 

The  plan  which  Madame  Arthenay  had  first  suggested 
— of  naturalizing  himself  in  France,  changing  his  domicile, 
and  marrying  as  a  French  citizen,  according  to  French  law 
— had,  immediately  after  his  parting  from  Hannah,  recurred 
again  and  again  to  Sir  Bernard's  mind  as  the  only  solution 
of  their  difficulty.  On  consulting  the  Dunsmores  on  the 
subject,  they  also  had  seen  the  matter  in  the  same  light. 
Though  session  after  session  Lord  Dunsmore  determined 
to  bring  forward  his  favorite  Bill,  still  years  might  elapse 
before  it  was  passed  and  became  law,  and  until  then  there 
was  no  hope  of  marriage  in  England  for  Hannah  and  Ber- 
nard. 

"  You  mustn't  ask  it,  or  desire  it,"  said  Lady  Dunsmore, 
ignorant  —  and  she  always  remained  ignorant — that  he 
ever  had  asked  it.  "  A  woman  like  her  would  never  con- 
sent. And  she  is  right.  To  break  your  country's  laws, 
however  unjust  they  may  be,  and  then  expect  its  protec- 
tion, is  like  disobeying  one's  father.  We  must  do  it — if 
compelled  by  his  unjust  exactions — but  we  ought  to  quit 
his  house  first." 

So  there  was  no  alternative  but  for  Sir  Bernard  to  make 
the  sacrifice  —  as  hard  for  him  as  Hannah's  renunciation 
of  Rosie  had  been  for  her — and  give  up  England  forever. 
His  profession  likewise — since  no  man  with  a  conscience 
could  break  the  canon  law,  and  yet  remain  a  clergyman. 

"  And  I  have  a  conscience,  though  they  do  not  think  so 
at  the  Moat  House,"  said  he,  faintly  smiling.     That  smile 


HANNAH.  303 

and  his  worn  looks  alone  betrayed  to  Hannah  the  suffer- 
ings he  must  have  gone  through  in  making  up  his  plans — 
now  all  decided,  and  set  in  train.  In  fact  he  had  already- 
renounced  every  thing,  and  prepared  himself  to  begin  a 
new  career  in  a  foreign  land. 

"  I  can  do  it,  in  one  sense,"  he  continued,  "  easier  than 
most  men — because  of  my  large  private  fortune.  I  mean 
to  buy  the  Chateau  St.  Roque,  which  you  liked  so  much. 
Did  you  not  say  you  could  cheerfully  spend  your  whole 
life  there  ?    Perhaps  you  may." 

Hannah  smiled ;  and  there  came  across  her  memory  a 
trembling  flash  of  that  pleasant  place — with  the  four  tow- 
ers looking  at  themselves  in  the  water,  and  the  green  up- 
land gardens  and  meadows  on  either  hand. 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  "  we  could  be  very  happy  there. 
It  would  not  be  so  very  dreadful  to  live  in  France,  would 
it?" 

"At  least,  we  must  not  say  so  to  our  good  friend,  Ma- 
dame Arthenay,  or  to  our  new  compatriots.  And  I  hope 
I  am  not  so  very  insular  as  to  see  charms  in  no  country 
except  my  own.  Besides,  am  I  not  replanting  my  family 
tree  where  its  old  roots  came  from  ?  Who  knows  ?  Years 
hence  I  may  revive  the  glory  of  my  Norman  ancestors  by 
making  a  speech,  in  my  very  best  French,  before  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies.  What  say  you,  Hannah?  Shall 
we  shake  British  dust  entirely  off  our  feet,  and  start 
afresh  as  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  la  Riviere  ?  Great 
fun  that !" 

The  boyish  phrase — and  the  almost  boyish  laugh  that 
accompanied  it — comforted  Hannah  more  than  he  knew. 
Heavy  as  his  heart  was  now,  and  sore  with  his  hard  re- 
nunciations, there  was  in  him  that  elastic  nature  which, 
grief  once  overpast,  refuses  to  dwell  upon  it — but  lives  in 
the  present  and  enjoys  the  future.  And  he  was  still  young 
enough  to  have  a  future — to  open  up  new  paths  for  him- 
self, and  carry  them  out  nobly;  to  live  in  content  and  die 
in  honor,  even  though  it  was  far  away  from  the  dear  En- 
gland where  he  was  born. 


304  HANNAH. 

"  But  it  costs  you  so  much — ah,  so  much  !"  said  Hannah, 
mournfully. 

"Yes,  but  I  have  counted  the  cost;  and  —  if  you  will 
not  scold  me  for  saying  so  —  I  think  you  worth  it  all. 
Many  men  become  voluntary  exiles  for  the  sake  of  weal|h, 
convenience,  or  whim  :  why  should  not  I  for  love  ?  Love — 
which  is  duty  also,  when  one  is  loved  back  again." 

Hannah  smiled,  knowing  he  was  one  of  those  whom  it 
makes  not  conceited  or  tyrannical,  but  strong  and  happy, 
to  be  "  loved  back  again." 

"  Besides,"  he  continued,  "I  have  not  much  love  to  leave 
behind :  my  sisters  are  all  married — Bertha  will  be  next 
spring.  No  one  will  miss  me^  nor  perhaps  shall  I  soon 
come  to  miss  any  thing — except  a  few  graves  in  Easter- 
ham  church-yard." 

He  stopped,  and  that  last  bitterness  of  exile — the  cling- 
ing  to  the  very  sod  of  one's  own  land,  the  sod  which  cov- 
ers our  dead — came  over  him  sad  and  sore.  Those  graves 
— ^buried  in  them  lay  all  his  childhood,  his  youth,  his  brief, 
happy  married  life  with  the  wife  whom — though  he  sel- 
dom spoke  of  her  now — Hannah  knew  he  had  no  more  for- 
gotten than  she  had  forgotten  her  lost  Arthur.  Time  had 
healed  all  wounds:  life  and  its  duties  had  strengthened 
them  both — strengthened  them  into  that  calm  happiness 
which  sometimes,  after  much  sorrow,  God  sees  fit  to  send, 
and  which  it  is  good  to  accept  and  be  thankful  for.  But — 
as  for  forgetting !  she  said  nothing,  only  drew  Bernard's 
head  softly  to  her  shoulder,  and  let  him  there  weep  the 
tears  of  which  no  man  need  be  ashamed. 

By-and-by  she  asked  about  Bertha's  marriage,  which  was 
to  a  gentleman  in  the  neighborhood  whom  she  had  refused 
several  times,  but  accepted  at  last.  He  was  very  rich,  if 
not  very  clever  or  very  wise. 

"  Still,  she  might  have  done  worse.  He  is  a  good  fel- 
low, and  we  all  like  the  match,  except,  perhaps,  Melville, 
who  speaks  sharply  about  it  sometimes ;  but  Bertha  only 
laughs  at  him,  and  says  she  shall  please  herself,  in  ^pite  of 
brothers-in-law." 


HANNAH.  305 

Hannah  looked  keenly  at  Bernard  while  he  spoke ;  but 
he  did  so  in  utter  unsuspiciousness.  Evidently  he  had 
never  guessed,  in  the  smallest  degree,  the  secret  grief  of 
his  sister  Adeline,  the  canker  of  her  married  life,  that  jeal- 
ousy of  her  sister,  from  which  all  the  restrictions  of  the 
law  could  not  save  her,  no  more  than  the  terror  of  the  Di- 
vorce Court  can  save  poor  miserable  souls  to  whom  vice  is 
pleasanter  than  virtue.  But  to  this  right-minded,  honest 
man,  intrenched  within  the  sacredness  of  a  happy  mar- 
riage, the  one  idea  would  have  been  almost  as  untenable 
as  the  other.  Hannah  was  certain  that,  dearly  as  Bernard 
loved  her  now,  had  Rosa  lived,  she  might  have  come  about 
their  house  continually,  and  he  would  have  had  no  sort  of 
feeling  for  her  beyond  the  affectionate  interest  that  a  man 
may  justly  take  in  his  wife's  sister,  or  cousin,  or  friend — 
the  honorable,  chivalric  tenderness  for  all  women  which 
only  proves  how  deeply  the  one  woman  he  has  chosen  is 
enshrined  in  his  heart. 

So  what  he  had  never  once  suspected  she  never  told 
him — and  no  one  else  was  ever  likely  to  do  so.  Adeline's 
sufferings  were  buried  with  her.     So  best. 

"And  now,"  said  Bernard,  "  I  must  say  good-by.  And 
I  shall  not  see  you  again  till  we  meet  on  board  the  Havre 
steamer  to-morrow." 

For  he  had  arranged  already  that  she  should  go  back 
at  once — avoiding  the  very  appearance  of  evil — and  re- 
main with  Madame  Arthenay  until  he  came  to  marry  her, 
which,  if  possible,  should  be  in  the  spring. 

"  I  shall  come,  like  Napoleon,  with  the  violets,  and  by 
then  we  must  have  these  thin  cheeks  rounded,  and  these 
grave  eyes  looking  as  bright  and  merry  as  Rosie's.  I 
used  to  say,  you  know,  there  was  no  telling  which  was 
most  of  a  baby,  Tannic  or  Rosie.  By-the-bye,  she  must 
cease  to  say  '  Tannic '  and  learn  to  say  '  mamma.' " 

Hannah  burst  into  tears. 

"  Yes,  there  is  one  thing  I  am  not  afraid  of,"  said  she, 
when  her  full  heart  had  a  little  relieved  itself  of  its  fe- 
licity.    "  I  know  I  shall  be  a  good  mother  to  your  child. 


306  HANNAH. 

What  I  am  afraid  of  is  whether  I  shall  be  a  sufficiently 
good  wife  to  you.  You  might  have  married  almost  any 
woman  you  liked  —  young,  rich,  pretty ;  while  I  —  look 
here,  Bernard." 

She  lifted  up  her  hair,  and  showed  him  the  long  stripes 
of  gray  already 'coming — faster  than  ever  since  the  trou- 
ble of  the  last  two  years ;  but  he  only  kissed  the  place,  re- 
peating Cowper's  lines,  w^hich  he  reminded  her  they  had 
often  read  together  in  those  long,  quiet  evenings  which 
would  all  come  back  again  when  the  one  deep  and  lasting 
bliss  of  married  life,  companionship,  would  be  theirs  with- 
out alloy — companionship,  which  even  in  friendship  alone, 
without  marriage,  had  been  so  sweet : 

*'Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  as  lovely  to  my  sight 
As  golden  beams  of  orient  light — 

My  Mary.'* 

"  No,  Hannah,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  afraid — neither  of  our 
new  life  nor  of  ourselves.  I  know  what  a  man  marries  a 
woman  for — not  for  this  beauty  or  that,  this  quality  or 
that  peculiarity;  but  because  she  suits  him,  sympathizes 
with  him,  is  able  to  make  him  a  better  man  than  he  ever 
was  before — as  you  have  made  me.  If  I  had  let  you  go,  I 
should  have  been  not  only  a  coward,  but  a  fool.  I  take 
you  just  as  you  are,  *  with  all  your  imperfections  on  your 
head,'  as  I  hope  you  will  take  me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  laughing,  though  the  tears  were  in  her 
eyes. 

"Very  well, then.     Let  us  be  content." 

He  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  stood  looking  deep  down 
into  her  eyes.  He  was  much  handsomer  than  she,  bright- 
er, and  younger-looking ;  yet  there  was  something  in  Han- 
nah's face  which,  with  all  its  handsomeness,  his  had  not — 
a  certain  spiritual  charm,  which,  when  a  man  once  recog- 
nizes it  in  a  woman,  is  an  attraction  as  mysterious  as  it  is 
irresistible — makes  him  crave  for  her  as  the  one  necessity 
of  his  existence,  risk  every  thing  in  order  to  win  her,  and, 
having  won  her,  love  her  to  the  last  with  a  passion  that 


HANNAH.  307 

survives  all  change,  all  decay.  What  this  charm  was,  prob- 
ably Bernard  himself  could  not  have  told ;  but  Lady  Duns- 
more,  speaking  of  Hannah,  once  characterized  it  as  being 
"  a  combination  of  the  ansjel  and  the  child." 


CHAPTER  XVH. 


There  is  a  picture  familiar  to  many,  for  it  was  in  the 
Great  Exhibition  of  1851,  and  few  stopped  to  look  at  it 
without  tears — "  The  Last  Look  of  Home,"  by  Ford  Madox 
Browne.  Merely  a  bit  of  a  ship's  side — one  of  those  emi- 
grant ships  such  as  are  constantly  seen  at  Liverpool,  or 
other  ports  whence  they  sail — with  its  long  rows  of  dang- 
ling cabbages,  and  its  utter  confusion  of  cargo  and  passen- 
gers. There,  indifferent  to  all,  and  intently  gazing  on  the 
receding  shore,  sit  two  persons — undoubtedly  a  man  and 
his  wife — emigrants — and  bidding  adieu  to  home  forever. 
The  man  is  quite  broken  down ;  but  the  woman,  sad  as  she 
looks,  has  hope  and  courage  in  her  face.  Why  not  ?  Li 
one  hand  she  firmly  clasps  her  husband's — the  other  sup- 
ports her  sleeping  babe.  She  is  not  disconsolate,  for  she 
carries  her  "  home  "  with  her. 

In  the  picture  the  man  is — not  at  all  like  Bernard,  cer- 
tainly, but  the  woman  is  exceedingly  like  Hannah — in  ex- 
pression at  least — as  she  sat  on  the  deck  of  the  French 
steamer,  taking  her  last  look  of  dear  old  England,  with  its 
white  cliffs  glimmering  in  the  moonlight — fainter  and  faint- 
er every  minute — across  the  long  reach  of  Southampton 
Water. 

Bernard  sat  beside  her — but  he  too  was  very  silent.  He 
meant  to  go  back  again  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  her  and 
Rosie  and  Grace  safely  landed  at  Havre;  but  he  knew 
that  to  Hannah  this  farewell  of  her  native  land  was,  in  all 
human  probability,  a  farewell  "  for  good." 

Ay — for  good — in  the  fullest  sense ;  and  she  believed  it 
— believed  that  they  were  both  doing  right,  and  that  God's 


308  HANNAH, 

blessing  would  follow  them  wherever  they  went ;  yet  she 
could  not  choose  but  be  a  little  sad,  until  she  felt  the  touch 
of  the  small,  soft  hand  which  now,  as  ever,  was  continu- 
ously creeping  into  Tannie's.  Then  she  was  content.  If 
it  had  been  God's  will  to  give  her  no  future  of  her  own  at 
all,  she  could  have  rested  happily  in  that  of  the  child  and 
the  child's  father. 

It  happened  to  be  a  most  beautiful  night  for  crossing — 
the  sea  calm  as  glass,  and  the  air  mild  as  summer,  though ' 
it  was  in  the  beginning  of  November.  Hannah  could  not 
bear  to  go  below,  but  with  Rosie  and  Grace  occupied  one 
of  those  pleasant  cabins  upon  deck — sheltered  on  three 
sides,  open  on  the  fourth.  There,  wrapped  in  countless 
rugs  and  shawls,  Rosie  being  in  an  ecstasy  at  the  idea  of 
going  to  bed  in  her  clothes,  "  all  under  the  tars"  ("  s"  was 
still  an  impossible  first  consonant  to  the  baby  tongue),  she 
settled  down  for  the  night,  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  and 
her  faithful  servant  at  her  feet. 

Sir  Bernard  made  them  all  as  comfortable  and  as  r/arm 
as  he  could — kissed  his  child,  and  Hannah  too,  in  Grace's 
presence.  For  he  had  himself  informed  the  nurse  how 
matters  stood,  and  told  her  that  in  his  house  she  should 
have  a  home  for  life,  in  a  country  where  marriages  such  as 
hers  were  considered  honorable,  natural,  and  right.  Then 
he  bade  them  all  good-night,  and  went  to  the  cabin  below. 

Hannah  could  not  sleep ;  but  she  rested  quiet  and  hap- 
py. Even  happiness  could  not  make  her  physically  strong ; 
but  she  left  all  her  days  to  come  in  God's  hands — to  be 
many  or  few,  as  he  thought  best.  The  others  fell  sound 
asleep,  one  at  her  bosom,  the  other  at  her  feet ;  but  she  lay 
wide  awake,  listening  to  the  lap-lap  of  the  water  against 
the  boat,  and  watching  the  night  sky,  so  thick  with  stars. 
At  length  the  moon  came  too,  and  looked  in  upon  them 
like  a  sweet,  calm  face,  resembling  a  dead  face  in  its  un- 
changeable peace ;  so  much  so,  that  when  Hannah  dropped 
at  last  into  a  confused  doze,  she  dreamed  it  was  the  face  of 
her  sister  Rosa  smiling  down  out  of  heaven  upon  them  alL 

When  she  woke  it  was  no  longer  moonlight,  but  day- 


HANNAH.  .309 

light — at  least  day-break;  for  she  could  discern  the  dark 
outline  of  the  man  at  the  wheel,  the  only  person  on  deck. 
The  boat  seemed  to  be  passing,  swiftly  and  silently,  as  a 
phantom  ship  through  a  phantom  ocean :  she  hardly  knew 
whether  she  was  awake  or  asleep,  dead  or  alive,  till  she 
felt  the  soft  breathing  of  the  child  m  her  arms,  and,  with  a 
passion  of  joy,  remembered  all. 

A  few  minutes  after,  Hannah,  raising  her  head  as  high 
as  she  could  without  disturbing  Rosie,  saw  a  sight  which 
she  never  saw  before,  and  never  in  all  her  life  may  see 
again,  but  will  remember  to  the  end  of  her  days. 

Just  where  sea  and  sky  met  was  a  long,  broad  line  of 
most  brilliant  amber,  gradually  widening  and  widening,  as 
the  sun  lifted  himself  out  of  the  water  and  shot  his  rays, 
in  the  form  of  a  crown,  right  up  into  the  still  dark  zenith. 
Then,  as  he  climbed  higher,  every  floating  cloud — and  the 
horizon  seemed  full  of  them — became  of  a  brilliant  rose- 
hue,  until  the  wiiole  heaven  blazed  with  color  and  light. 
In  the  midst  of  it  all,  dim  as  a  dream,  but  with  all  these 
lovely  tints  flitting  over  it,  Hannah  saw,  far  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  line  of  the  French  shore. 

It  was  her  welcome  to  her  new  country  and  new  life — 
the  life  which  was  truly  like  being  born  again  into  anoth- 
er world.  She  accepted  the  omen,  and,  clasping  her  child 
to  her  bosom,  closed  her  eyes  and  praised  God. 

All  this  happened  long  ago,  and  Monsieur  and  Madame 
de  la  Riviere  have  never  returned  to  England.  They  still 
inhabit  the  Chateau  de  Saint  Roque,  beloved  and  honored 
far  and  wide  in  the  land  of  their  adoption,  and  finding,  af- 
ter all,  that  the  human  heart  beats  much  alike,  whether 
with  French  blood  or  English,  and  that  there  is  something 
wonderfully  noble  and  lovable  about  that  fine  old  Norman 
race  which  (as  Madame  Arthenay  long  delighted  in  im- 
pressing upon  her  dear  neighbors,  and  upon  the  many  En- 
glish friends  who  visited  them  in  their  pleasant  foreign 
home)  once  came  over  and  conquered,  and  civilized,  us 
rude  Saxons  and  Britons. 


310  HANNAH. 

Whether  the  master  and  mistress  of  Saint  Roque  will 
ever  return  to  England,  or  whether  little  Austin,  the  eld- 
est of  their  three  sons — Rosie  is  still  the  only  daughter — 
will  ever  become  not  only  the  heir  of  their  French  estates 
and  name,  but  one  day  Sir  Austin  Rivers  of  the  Moat 
House,  remains  to  be  proved.  At  any  rate,  they  mourn 
little  after  that  old  home,  being  so  thoroughly  happy  in 
their  new  one — as  those  deserve  to  be  who  have  sacrificed 
for  one  another  almost  every  thing  except  Avhat  they  felt 
to  be  right.  But  they  are  happy — and  what  more  can 
they  or  any  one  desire  ? 


TM£  END. 


By  the  Author  of  "John  Halifax." 

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She  attempts  to  show  how  the  trials,  perplexities,  joys,  sorrows,  la- 
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